


Come crashing through your door

by wonthetrade



Series: my head's not bowed [6]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of underage drinking, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 17:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6292735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonthetrade/pseuds/wonthetrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dylan Strome doesn’t just have one idiot, she has two. And she loves them both.</p><p>(aka: Dylan Strome always wears the pants and Davo and Marns should probably just get used to it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come crashing through your door

**Author's Note:**

> If you got here by searching yourself or someone you know, turn back now. It's for your own health and safety.
> 
> We are handwaving so many dates for this it’s almost funny. The hockey events are mostly real (eg: tournaments and games). The dates are not necessarily so. And since we've retconned Stromer as a girl in this 'verse, some of the events in Jack and Connor's story have also been hand waved away. It's nothing too drastic, though. We've also added Trixie (aka Travis) Konecny to the 'verse, though we're not sure if she'll get a story of her own. We just wanted Dylan's story to have more girls.

She’s been waiting for this moment for what feels like forever. There isn’t a single person with any junior hockey sense that doesn’t know who Connor McDavid is and Dylan gets to fucking _play_ with him. It’s more than a little surreal to think about, this new reality of hers. It’s the OHL and Connor McDavid and it’s going to be amazing.

Dylan, of course, has a picture in her head of who Connor is going to be and the type of guy he is. She assumes he’d be much like a taller Mitch Marner (the asshole), who is now twice the asshole because he’s playing in London (and hadn’t that been worth it, the moment she’d been drafted to _Erie_ , seeking out his stupid mullet in the crowd so she could wave and blow him her most sarcastic of kisses). Erie’s going to beat the shit out of London this year if Dylan has to do it single-handedly. It’s biased, sure, because she’s grown up around that kind of asshole but Dylan’s not worried. She has years of practice behind her, rivalries and brothers and she knows exactly how to handle that kind of personality.

She’s a little bit giddy with it when she steps into the locker room before the first Otters practice. Nerves mix with excitement when she’s directed to the stall right next to ‘McJesus’ himself.

“Hi,” he says immediately, and his face is so, so awkwardly serious. She can see, objectively speaking, why the girls she ran into at school and at home drooled a little over his face. “Connor McDavid.”

She laughs. “I know who you are. Everyone knows who you are.”

He looks a little put out by that and Dylan feels her heartstrings tug a little. She almost sighs to herself. She’d sworn she wouldn’t be the Team Mom. Not this time, but good grief, if Connor’s going to look at her like that she may not get a choice.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, already kicking her shoes off and popping up to tug her shirt over her head. The chorus of wolf-whistles is maybe a little bit new - it had been mostly a strange sort of whispering on the Malboros, she’d been with those damn losers so long - and Dylan turns with a laugh and a curtsy.

“Careful boys! Gonna have bare thigh on display in a minute here. Better watch yourselves,” she says cheerfully because if Dylan is absolutely anything it’s shameless and she will not deal with the awkward adjustment of being a girl in the locker room. When she turns back to Connor he’s looking a little constipated and she rolls her eyes. “Dude, let it go. I’m not going to, like, sell your sweaty jock on Ebay or anything.”

Constipated turns to downright disgusted and Dylan considers their meeting a job well done, even if he is as awkward, prudish and sheltered as she’d imagined. “Look,” he finally says, “I watched you play. In the GTA.”

Well, he certainly has all of her attention now.

“You’re good, okay? Like… really good. And I’m excited to be on the ice with you.”

Dylan’s heart is kind of in her throat. He’d noticed her hockey. Jesus.

His eyes are intense as they lock on hers. “Don’t let them mess this up for you, okay? If you have any issues, you can totally-”

He trails off awkwardly and Dylan blinks at him, her entire illusion of an entitled ass completely shattered with the determined earnestness on his face. She tilts her head to the side, considering. “You know, I expected you to be more of an asshole, not a complete dork.”

Connor looks away sheepishly for a moment but when he turns back she knows her face looks absolutely stupid with the huge grin spreading across it and he relaxes. Dylan, still grinning, steps up, and shoves at his shoulder.

She’s going to like Erie just fine.

 

Giving Dylan the responsibility of handling Connor is something that develops organically. She’s the one who gives him the most shit, no matter the rumours that start so damn early that this is a guy who is likely to go first in his draft year. Coincidentally, it’s Dylan’s draft year. She’s kind of glad she’d never even considered going first. She thinks maybe it would give her a complex, that much pressure. Whatever the case, Connor gravitates toward her, finding her after games, on the bus, at school.

She takes great pride in the shit she says to interviewers. They ask her about Connor, about how good he is, about how awesome his goals are, what it’s like practicing with him, and Dylan always, _always_ catches his eyes and let’s her mouth quirk up before she takes him down a peg or two.

“Would you say Connor’s known for his skating?”

Dylan arches an eyebrow at the interviewer. “To you guys, maybe. You didn’t see him trip over his own feet in practice yesterday.” Connor snorts from his own media scrum beside her and she feels her mouth twitch up just a little. She makes a show of catching his eyes. “Guy’s a klutz.”

The thing is, they both know that’s a lie. She and Connor are both pretty effusive with their praise of each other on the ice, in practice, with the guys, but when it comes to the media, they have an unwritten rule that all bets are off. Dylan loves it, thrives on it, especially when the shit she gives him makes him grin, even after he’s played a less than stellar game.

“In all seriousness, Dyls,” Ryan asks her once when they finally manage to connect. Between her OHL schedule and his NHL schedule, finding time to get caught up, sibling to sibling, isn’t easy. She gets the majority of her Ryan updates from her mom or Matt. “Is he as good as they say?”

Dylan snorts as she twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “He’s better,” she answers easily, because it’s always easy to talk about Connor. “Ryan… he’s amazing.”

“You don’t make it sound like it,” he chides her.

“Don’t be stupid. When was the last time I said anything nice about you to the media?”

Ryan grunts his reluctant affirmation.

“Davo doesn’t need someone else admiring him,” she says and only winces a little when she rolls over to her stomach. It’s the good kind of sore but damn, her workout was a tough one today. “There are enough people putting The Next One pressure on his shoulders. You know how this league can be, what this game is like.”

Of course Ryan does. He’d been drafted the same year as Ryan Nugent-Hopkins in Edmonton, the pressure she’d been under at the time to bring Edmonton back from the brink of disaster.

“That’s perceptive of you.”

Dylan rolls her eyes and irrationally hates that he isn’t there to actually see it.

“You jealous?”

“God, no.” Because she’s not. “One, I have my rivalry with Marns to think about.”

That makes Ryan chuckle, well aware of the fact that the so-called ‘rivalry’ that has followed Dylan through her time in the GTA and now into the OHL is not one that Dylan puts much stock in. Mitch comes to the annual Strome Summer Tournament and no one dies, even if Dylan doesn’t make a concerted effort to talk to him.

“Two, I just want to play the best hockey I can.” She shrugs, regardless of the fact that Ryan can’t see it. “You play alongside Connor, you don’t have a choice.”

“Your skating is getting better.”

“You suck.”

“I love you, too.”

 

So, because Dylan is Connor’s unofficial handler and doesn’t think he’ll get out of the house much if she doesn’t push him to do so, she invites him to the Strome Summer Tournament. Look, she’s all for living and breathing hockey, but sometimes Connor takes it just a step too far. It’s legitimately stupid how everyone crowds around him. She almost feels compelled to remind people he hasn’t been drafted (yet) and she has no idea why they’re making such a big deal.

“Look at them. Vultures.”

Mitch is grinning from where he’s leaning against the crossbar of one goal, padded up, even though he plays a much better forward than a goalie. This is something she wholly intends on telling him this year. There are new kids, they can take the goal. It’s embarrassing to watch him doing it, really.

“Like you wouldn’t worship at the altar of McJesus.”

Mitch shrugs and waddles over so he can plop down next to her. “I’m not his second fiddle.”

Dylan rolls her eyes. “Like it’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Bug you?”

It’s a surprisingly perceptive question and Dylan gets the strange sense that he’s legitimately asking and not just trying to find another way to get under her skin. “About as much as being compared to you bugs me.”

Which is not at all, no matter how much Mitch wishes it were the opposite. He smirks anyway and Dylan seriously considers grinding his face into the pavement. Asshole.

“You heard about the girl in the States though?”

He sounds serious and Dylan spares him a glance before leaning back down to stretch out her hamstrings. The right one’s been giving her trouble this summer and she refuses to get injured playing damn street hockey. “Eichel?”

“Yeah. Sounds like she’s going to give Davo a run for his money.”

Dylan almost laughs. It is a genuinely close thing. Mitch arches an eyebrow her way.

“Aren’t you supposed to, like… be all over that plan? Sisterhood and all that?”

“Maybe if someone was giving her non-hockey shit. Sisterhood does not apply to hockey.” She fixes him with a look that says ‘sometimes you’re so dumb’. “You really think Crosby goes easy on any of the other ladies? You’ve seen Staal play, right?”

Mitch makes a sound that says he, very, very grudgingly, concedes her point.

“No one’s beating Davo in the draft. He’d have to do something pretty damn stupid to make that happen.”

Speak of the devil, Dylan thinks as she spots Connor wandering back their way. She wants to laugh when he gets close enough for her to notice that his cheeks are pink. “Got a fan club there, Davo?”

The blush gets even worse and Dylan perks her head up. “Wait, no, you have a _crush_?!”

Connor’s mouth turns down and he shoves his hands in his pockets. “It’s not a crush.”

“Connor, dude. You are way to young for all that true love shit,” Mitch says with an earnestness that even Dylan kind of falls for. She nods alongside him anyway, biting her cheek against the grin that wants to take over her mouth.

Connor rolls his eyes, but when he meets Dylan’s it all melts away into a sort of strange awe. “They wanted me to sign stuff.”

Mitch squawks. It’s the only word Dylan has for it. She jumps, started, staring at Mitch like he’d grown an extra head. Considering the noise, it may actually be closer to pod person. “What the hell Marner-”

“ _Autographs_ ?! But I’m cooler than you. I’ve been coming here _forever_. Why do they want your autograph?”

“Because they have taste, that’s why.” Then with a smirk at Connor, she continues. “Not much taste, mind you, but-” She dances out of the way when Connor makes a playful lunge in her direction. “Hey, are we playing hockey or not?”

The Strome family takes their street hockey seriously. They go hard, they go fast, and there’s absolutely no room for error. So, when the puck bounces off Mitch’s face with both teams tied and the game point to go, she doesn’t even pause. She’s right there to nab the rebound, tearing down the street and burying it, backhand and from between the legs in one beauty of a shot. Her team mobs her, screaming so loudly they’d probably get a noise complaint if the neighbors weren’t already used to it.

Mitch, she notices eventually, is not joining the celebrations. He’s leaning back against the goal, the stick dangling from his gloves. “Yo, Marns,” she calls, jogging over and slapping a few backs on her way. “You need medical attention?”

He has one hell of a shiner on his chin, already raised and red. “That hit my _face_ ,” he murmurs, bewildered.

“News flash: you’re still ugly.” But you gotta give credit when credit’s due, so she heaves a sigh and grudgingly admits, “Nice assist, though.”

Mitch beams at her and winces when it pulls at the skin. “Aw, Stromer, you do care!”

“Not really, but I should probably get you an ice pack, anyway.”

So she does, because she’s not that much of an asshole. She even deigns to sit with him for a bit, sipping on a bottle of water and watching Connor walk a few of the smaller kids through some absolutely ridiculous stick handling. They’re all staring at him, wide-eyed and awed. Dylan snorts.

“You can only dream of being that good,” Mitch says through the towel shoved on his face, his gaze just as fixated on Connor’s skills as the actual children.

Dylan rolls her eyes and reaches out to tug at his forearm to get him to pull the ice away. “Let me see.”

“You’re not my mom.”

“No, but I can get her,” Dylan threatens. “Pretty sure she’s, like, having lemonade with mine or something.”

“Spiked lemonade.” But he takes the ice away from his face.

Dylan pokes at it a little, ignores his hissing and grunting. “You’ll live.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Bite me.”

He mimes chomping at her, his teeth clicking and Dylan shoves at his face. There’s only a tiny twinge of guilt when he grunts in pain again. He’ll have a hell of a shiner in the morning.

“Do I need to separate you?”

Dylan grins up at Connor, all innocence, even as she continues to shove her hand against Mitch’s face. “And take you away from your pupils? What are you going to call your school, Davo?”

She finally settles her hand back into her lap only to find Mitch glaring and Connor doing the same. Dylan feels like it’s been a damn good day.

 

Dylan’s mom gave her the sex talk _really fucking young_. When she made the O, her mom sat her down and explained everything. It was humiliating and not something Dylan can think about without going pink-faced. She also can’t think about that conversation without a shitload of genuine gratitude. Playing with teenaged boys means sex comes up a lot as they ‘try and find their identity’ or whatever society’s using to justify that shit these days. Dylan spends a lot of time rolling her eyes when she hangs out with them.

But it also means, at least when it comes to her own body, she’s kind of an expert. And, well, she is most definitely not ashamed of it.

She doesn’t sleep around. She’s smarter and more self-aware than that, even at sixteen. Despite the number of women playing in the NHL - and maybe Dylan has a Tumblr dedicated to that shit, but no one needs to know; those ladies are fucking awesome - there are still some _boys_ that don’t seem to understand body parts don’t make the player. So, despite what guys say on the ice, she’s not fucking half the O, thanks, not even half the Otters.

She does, however, end up fucking Connor McDavid.

It’s their second year playing on the Otters together, her A to his C this year. She has her own room when the Otters are on the road, no other girls at all. It suits Dylan just fine, really. Connor usually gets the one next to her because they get along like a house on fire and somewhere along the line it shifted to a codependency that would probably be terrifying if it weren’t for the fact that people assume, as hockey players, they’re all just fucking weird, and as her generation’s Gretzky, Connor’s just naturally weirder. Or that they’re boning, which is wrong at first.

The point is, if anyone’s looking for Dylan or Connor, they’re pretty much guaranteed to find them together. Dylan never talks about how much she likes that because that would be _weird_ and it’s Connor and she loves him but no, she’s not _in_ love with him. She doesn’t need a love story narrative to add to her rivalry narrative and Connor has enough pressure on his shoulders without fielding those types of questions.

Yet, he’s face down on her bed moaning because he struck out - which is actually dumb because he is sixteen for fuck’s sake, it’s not like he’s going to have game like Roman Josi or anything - and Dylan is fed up.

“Dude. You wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“The hell I don’t,” Connor snipes back, head coming up from the pillow. He looks fucking ridiculous with his hair everywhere and his stupid frowning face.

Dylan shifts against the pillows and folds her arms over her stomach, crossing her ankles. “No one does, Davo. Hockey is your life.” And because she is absolutely shameless she goes on, “You probably don’t even know what a clitoris is.”

He goes red. Not even pink, straight red, and it’s a good look on him, objectively speaking. “Of course I do.”

Dylan’s eyebrow goes straight up. “Can you even say clitoris, asshole?”

He can’t. Not clearly enough for her to understand him. Dylan feels vindicated.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, bud,” she says, letting her eyes fall closed. Even she can only take so much of Connor’s whining before she gives up. She deserves sainthood for putting up with his shit, seriously. She has no idea how the media came to the conclusion that he was down to earth or whatever.

Except then she feels his palm low on her stomach, under her own hands. She and Connor are touchy, sure, both of them cuddlers by nature given how far they often are from their families and the natural bond of the team, but even she can’t brush off a touch like this as casual snuggling.

“I can.”

He doesn’t move his hand, just watches her while she contemplates this. Because this is big. This is a huge step, this is a relationship changing and potentially relationship ending decision she has to make here. They’re friends, _best_ friends, linemates, and she is damn well going to be sure.

“I’m sure,” he says when she asks, and yeah, his eyes look damn serious about it. Just about as serious as he gets when he’s up in front of the Otters for their pre-game encouragement, quiet but solemn. Intense.

“Connor,” she says, and she never uses his first name. None of them do, ever. Camaraderie. “Dude. This isn’t some hit it and quit it thing, okay? This is me, this is you.”

“Exactly.”

And, well, point conceded. So long as they both know this isn’t going to be some _When Harry Met Sally_ kind of thing. “Okay. Better pay attention Davo.”

She takes his hand in hers and slides it down.

 

The odd time that Dylan is on Connor’s line, she doesn’t take face-offs. She does when she’s centring her own line, but when Coach mixes it up, Dylan is more than happy to let Connor have that honour. The thing about that, however, is that the refs are always too far away to hear the shit that gets hurled at her to “throw her off her game”.

Which, okay, whatever. Chirping is part of hockey and a part of hockey Dylan’s never shied away from. If anything, she thrives on it. It’s one of the things every girl’s warned about, the harshness of them, the disgusting things some of the guys’ll throw out.

But Dylan has an older, NHL-hockey-playing brother that has passed on all the good secrets and she chirps like a fucking pro.

Her favourite is when she’s told she belongs on her back or her knees. More so when she gets it from a rookie who doesn’t know what she’s fucking capable of, because Dylan always looks at them and raises her eyebrows before she says, “Sweetheart, even on my knees I play better hockey than you.” So no, those kind of comments don’t even register on her radar. She’s used to them and she’s unaffected by them because seriously? Is that the best they can do?

“I think it’s because I’m not actually slutting it up across the O,” Dylan muses to Connor one day while he’s still trying to catch his breath. Dylan is damn good with her mouth and there’s nothing better than leaving Connor a boneless wreck for more than a few breaths. This one she’s definitely calling ‘mission accomplished’.

Connor’s head lolls towards her. “Huh?”

She hums. Still monosyllabic, good. “When I get chirped about being a girl.”

That snaps Connor a little more awake. “I thought that stopped when Crosby got drafted.”

“Au contraire, mon frere.” Which he’s totally not because she’s fucking his brains out at every given opportunity (he is so, so eager to learn), but it’s worth it for the look he gets on his face when she says it. “The threats, maybe, depending on the team and the player and definitely not in Crosby’s year. But the general chirping about how I’d probably do better on my knees than my skates? Nah.”

“Dylan-”

Oh hell no. Her hand flies over, covers his mouth with maybe a bit more force than she’d needed to, but she needs to cut this off here. “Before you get up on your high horse, let me give you some advice: don’t.”

His eyes are still a little mutinous and she rolls hers, moves her hand far enough to replace it with her mouth. He goes pliant half a moment later and Dylan pulls away grinning.

“It’s fine,” she says, settling back against the pillows again. She can be patient about her own orgasm. Connor’s always good for it, his good boy upbringing and all. “I mean, have you met the O?”

There’s a beat, a tension that ratchets up just a bit before Connor says, “You could, you know.”

Both her eyebrows hit her hairline.

“Not-not like that,” he corrects immediately in his earnest way that seriously makes her believe he couldn’t lie worth a shit. “But…you could sleep around. I won’t- I don’t-”

“God, you’re cute,” Dylan says with a roll of her eyes. “But seriously, Davo, it’s not necessary. For one thing, I have you so nicely trained.” He flushes so red. It really is adorable. “Besides,” she goes on with a wave of her hand. “Do you know how much time that would take? I mean, I play really fucking great hockey, you think I have the time to sleep around on top of that?” She scoffs.

“But you could. If you wanted. I wouldn’t…it doesn’t, like…always have to be with me.”

She snorts. “Of course not.” Then a terrible thought hits her and she flips to the side almost hard enough to roll into him. “Davo. Tell me you’re not in love with me. This cannot be some ridiculous declaration of feelings.”

Thank baby Jesus, Connor actually laughs, hard and long. He reaches over to tug her in, wrap his arms around her.

“Fuck you,” she murmurs into his neck. Connor keeps laughing.

“I mean,” he wheezes, when his laughter dies down. “I love you, but in love with you? Come on, Stromer.”

“Asshole,” she says, though she’s too relieved to be offended that he finds the whole idea hilarious. “I’m awesome.”

He tugs on her hair until he can give her the worst puppy eyes she’s ever seen.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” she says and rolls on top of him. “I love you, too.”

 

So, she gets chirped about being a female hockey player all the time and that doesn’t bother her. What does get her, however, are chirps about her hockey. Connor and Brinksie have both tried to tell her it’s because they’re jealous, because they’ll never play as well as she does, but Dylan’s worked her fucking ass off to make it to the Otters and she is fucking proud of all that work. Jealousy or not, chirping her about her hockey is _not fucking cool_.

That, in a nutshell, is her relationship with Mitch.

“Come on Stromer, you call that skating?” he drawls around his mouthpiece. “You make the people who wobble around the board during free skates look good.”

“What kind of shots are those? Seems like you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn.”

“Can you even tell where your teammates are, Stromer? Cause those passes, well…”

Mitch is just such a little shit, probably because he never actually shuts up. Sometimes even the most innocuous comment from him is enough to set her off, resulting in time in the box and a power play for the Knights.

(His chirps have never been sexist, though. It’s never personal, it’s always about her hockey. At this point, they’ve known each other long enough for Mitch to know exactly what gets under her skin and how to exploit it.)

The Otters-Knights games are about as legendary in the OHL as the Bruins-Habs rivalry. Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but the atmosphere feels pretty close to that tense. So Dylan is so far from surprised when she’s sandwiched between Mitch and another Knight after chasing a puck into the corner and she hears, “Jesus, Strome, you on your time of the month or something?”

Dylan, of course, laughs brightly and slams the guy to the boards, flicking the puck back out into the ice in the process. Parsons catches the ensuing shot and freezes the play. “Really? You have to get new material, dude. Chirping me about being a girl got old when I was ten.” She offers him a predatory grin. “And that was long before I started bleeding out of my vagina.”

She gets a distinct feeling of pleasure when the guy goes green around the gills. She expects the same when she flicks her gaze to Mitch, maybe some sort of smarmy smile at the very least, but the look on Mitch’s face is far from teasing, let alone amused. It stuns her enough that she doesn’t move for a moment, until the whistle blows again at the faceoff circle and Dylan shakes herself out of it. Still, it’s slow-going, getting into place, her mind no longer on the game. Connor nudges her hard when she makes it back to the bench for the next change and she shakes her head at him.

But when she glances over at the London bench Mitch is having less than impressed words with more than one of his teammates.

She doesn’t get the chance to corner him during the game, but the moment still sits with her, well through her clean up and the exhausted trek onto the bus. Even a win can’t seem to keep her energy from flagging. She curls happily into Connor’s side, her knee jumping up and down until Connor puts a hand on it.

“The hell is up with you?”

“Nothing,” Dylan replies, and bless Connor because he knows better than to ask. Finally, she dives for her phone and flicks open her messages.

“Marns?” Connor asks with a scoff. “Gonna chirp him about that miss in the second? Wide open damn net. He’s a disgrace.”

Dylan elbows Connor hard but she’s biting her lip against a smile too. She can be very proprietary about who gets to chirp Mitch and how. The basic premise is he’s her rival and she gets to say what she wants. No one chirps Mitch but her. It’s not a perfect system, but the Otters, at least, get it.

 _the fuck was that, doofus,_ she writes and hits send. Then, _u look like u were scolding ur kids_ . And because she can, she sends a third message: _please dont have kids._

 _fuck u,_ is Mitch’s predictable answer

_im serious. getting mad over girl stuff? why bother?_

_not cool,_ comes Mitch’s response. _Crosby doesnt take this shit. y should u?_

Wow, that is surprisingly touching. It still makes Dylan roll her eyes. _ur delusional_ , she types back.

 _we can beat u without shit tactics. shouldn’t be our game_.

It’s not, is the thing. Dylan knows that. Chirping happens. She hadn’t been lying to Connor when she’d said the girl chirps are kind of just part of what she understands as the game. Which isn’t to say she doesn’t appreciate the teams that don’t go there, but she’s not going to ask anyone, let alone Mitch, to come to her defense. She doesn’t need it.

_dude, its fine. sticks and stones._

_fuck u,_ he sends again and Dylan frowns at her phone. She can’t say she’s ever known Mitch to get quite this defensive. It makes her stomach churn oddly and an itch spread beneath her skin.

So, like any mature teenager, Dylan ignores the weird feeling in her gut and makes Connor pose with her for a picture. No better cure for awkwardness than chirping the opposition to get them all on even keel again.

 **@dylstrome19:** happy faces after kicking ass against **@marner_93** and the Knights!

She tags Connor in the picture too and hits post. She settles back in her seat to watch Connor fail at Candy Crush again until her phone trills. She smirks at the notification from Instagram.

 **@marner_93** commented: screw you loser.

Dylan grins.

 

No matter what vaguely and weirdly chivalrous and proprietary feelings Mitch has towards her and her hockey, as far as Dylan and Dylan’s hockey is concerned, Mitch has always been an asshole. Not the good kind, either. Mitch is the type of asshole that is so easy to dislike. He’s never off her case about her skating, her stick handling, her _everything_. They’ve grown up on opposite sides of some sort of weird competitive line so after that long and with that much history, she can probably say with a straight face that she hates him, passionately and violently and she wholly intends to do that for the rest of her life.

It’s not really that true. At the end of the day it’s a manufactured hatred because Dylan gets a stupid amount of media training being the only girl on the Otters, and she knows very well what that kind of narrative does for her reputation.

Except then they end up on Team Ontario together for the U-17 Hockey Challenge. Which is just dumb.

(Not really. If she’s objective, Mitch is a damn good hockey player. But he’s a fucking Knight and Dylan, by default, hates the fucking Knights. She also hates fucking rivalries because she thinks they’re dumb and useless but the media loves them, so she hates Mitch. It’s mutually beneficial in raising not just her profile, but his too.)

The World U-17 Tournament is an experience, that’s for sure. It’s a level of hockey that pushes Dylan beyond what she’s used to playing, even sharing a line with the next generational phenom. Sure, sometimes she feels a little lost without Connor at her side, but that’s about friendship, not hockey, and he picks up Facetime whenever she calls so she’s content with that.

Then Coach puts Mitch on her line because they cannot seem to score against Russia. The asshole legitimately becomes her winger and, well, Dylan has to make a choice.

Which is a misnomer. It’s hockey and that’s always the only choice.

Dylan is great at hockey. She’s actually really fucking great at hockey, no matter what the pundits say about how she’s nothing without Connor. Connor is nothing without her. Someone has to get the idiot the puck, after all, and her points are no slouch. So it doesn’t feel much different passing to Mitch than it does passing to Connor (Except, obviously, Connor is so much better than Mitch, not that she’s biased. It’s a fact at this point. There’s Connor, then there’s the rest of them and that kind of feels just right.).

Dylan is a playmaker. So she makes fucking plays and she assists on Mitch’s hatty as easily as if it were Connor.

“Fuck,” Mitch breathes after the game, his eyes glowing. He has every right to be excited because it’s fucking Russia and it’s three fucking goals. “Dylan.”

She thinks it might be the first time he’s ever used her given name and it has her sitting up a little bit straighter and watching him a little bit closer because that is not just happiness in his voice.

“That was fucking _awesome_.”

The team goes out, even if it was a shootout loss. Dylan doesn’t. Trixie, bless her, doesn’t press. She knows from experience not to.

It’s something Dylan kind of doesn’t do, on average, one of the few ways in which she kind of acquiesces to being a female hockey player. Scrutiny is not something she likes. They write enough articles about her without adding a party girl reputation to that mix (Trixie does, and somehow manages to maintain a good-girl image. Dylan doesn’t know how). Sometimes she thinks that’s part of the reason she and Connor get along so well. They’re both under scrutiny, both of them the focus of the media. For different reasons, sure, but it’s a thing Connor understands. Or a thing she understands. She’s never sure which way things like that go these days.

“You should go,” Connor says, his face blurry over the Facetime connection. Hotel wifi is the worst. “Have some fun without me.”

“It’s not fun without you,” she replies, because she knows that’s what he’s looking for. He doesn’t preen, really, but his smile turns to that nerdy, unguarded thing Dylan loves because it’s hers. He’s such a dork.

“That’s your team though.”

She shrugs. “There’ll be other nights.”

There will be other teams, teams that matter more than this U-17 one, teams that matter more than her own Otters. She can tell Connor’s trying to think of his next argument to get her out when there’s a knock on her door.

It’s Mitch. Dylan frowns. “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?” he retorts. His eyes slide to her phone and widen comically. “No. Please don’t tell me you’re on the phone with McDavid when you should be out with the team. _Really_???”

He brushes past her before she can even think to block the door, flopping face down on her bed. How he knows it’s hers and not Trixie’s, she has no idea. “Stromerrrrrrrrrrr.”

“Excuse me Davo, I need to kill Marns,” she says into the phone, hanging up on his splutters. “Get off my bed.” Although he’s probably contaminated the damn thing with his cooties, because if anyone actually has cooties, it’s Mitch Marner.

“Don't wanna,” he mumbles into the covers and she just _knows_ he's smirking, the asshole.

That's it. She doesn't care if he had a hatty tonight. She tosses her phone aside, dives for him, and it's _on._ But while Dylan has height and muscle, Mitch is a slippery little eel and always manages to get out of her grip. “I'm not...going...out,” she pants, trying to get him in a headlock, swearing when his elbow glances off her temple.

“Wasn't...trying...to,” he snarls, his lips peeling back from his teeth. If he bites her, she’s actually going to commit murder. Then get a rabies shot.

Somehow, Dylan manages to get them both on their sides, her arms pinning his down and her legs locked around his. “Then why the hell are you here?”

He goes limp but knowing him it’s just probably one of his tricks, so Dylan doesn’t slacken her grip at all. “I just...it’s kind of lonely okay?”

“What?”

He sighs and wiggles. Dylan holds fast. “Look, I just didn’t want to go out with the others and I didn’t feel like being alone and being with you is better than nothing, okay?”

Dylan contemplates strangling him. It would be so easy, honestly, but then she pictures Connor’s disappointed face and well, they still have a tournament to finish, presumably with Mitch on her line. “Wow, you sure know how to compliment a girl.” Her voice is as dry as the desert.

“Hell yeah, I’ve got mad game,” he says proudly.

“You only think you have game,” she snorts, shifting back. But Mitch moves with her with a sound that can only be called a whine, trying to fit himself back in her arms. “ _Now_ what are you doing?”

He actually tries to tug her arms back around him and honestly, this has to be the most surreal moment of her life. “Come on, Stromer, I thought we were cuddling here!”

“You cannot be serious.”

“When it comes to cuddling, I am dead serious.”

It’s not that Dylan has never cuddled with anyone. She’s a hugely tactile person, always leaning on someone or bumping shoulders or draping arms around someone. Ryan calls her a cuddle monster. But with Mitch?

The funny thing is, she’s already relaxing into it. His body heat is soothing and he doesn’t smell awful, just clean. This could actually work. “Fine, we’ll cuddle. Just...be quiet, okay? Or I’ll smother you.”

“Rude,” he huffs. “But fine.” After a moment, he ventures, “And if I were to say anything about this tomorrow…?”

“You’d be dead before you hit the ground.”

“Right. Got it.”

And that’s the end of it - at least, she thinks it is, until the next night she doesn’t go out, and he shows up at her room _again._ “More cuddling?” she asks with a doubtful expression on her face.

He shoots finger guns at her and honestly, how does such a person even exist? “Got that right, Stromer.”

It’s only when he strolls into the room that Dylan realizes _Dancing With the Stars_ is still playing on her laptop and no, this is not something she wants him to see. She scrambles for it as quickly as she can, trying to slam the top closed but he notices, damn him, and uses his speed to get there first.

“What is this? Stromer, I thought this was porn or something but wow,” Mitch cackles and honestly, Dylan doesn’t know whether or not she wants to sink into the floor or...okay, maybe she needs to stop thinking of ways she can kill him. “Do you actually watch this?”

“I like it,” she retorts because she doesn’t believe in guilty pleasures, okay? You like what you like and so long as it doesn’t hurt or offend anyone else no one has the right to judge.

He tilts his head, contemplating the show. “What the hell kind of dance is this? It’s so...bouncy.”

“It’s the cha-cha, idiot.” Whatever. She’s going to roll with it. She shoves him down onto the bed and crawls on after him, dragging the laptop with her. “You want to cuddle, you will watch this and you will like it, otherwise you can just get out.”

“Harsh,” he comments, but settles against her anyway.

 

They don’t really place well. Not where a team of their calibre should place anyway, even if she does make the all-star team. It’s not where she wanted to place. Mitch either, if the subdued way they wait in the lobby is any indication.

Subdued and jittering. It’s driving her insane.

“Marns,” she finally growls and has to sit on her hands to keep herself from pinning him down.

He glares at her. It’s not even playful. “Shut up.”

“Oh my God, it’s not even that bad. Fifth is not the worst ever-”

“Shut up, Stromer.”

She blinks at him slowly, utterly nonplussed, until he huffs and punches her. She punches back, of course, and puts him in a headlock for good measure until he pokes at the ticklish spot just above her hip.

He has a funny look on his face when she lets go and she opens her mouth to ask what the actual fuck when he says, “Let’s not be strangers this time, okay?”

Her mouth opens and closes, opens and closes. “What?”

“Just…when we’re back in the O. Let’s not be strangers.”

“We’re not strangers, asshole. I know exactly who you are,” she says because there’s no way in hell Mitch means what she thinks he means. They have nothing to talk about that isn’t hockey.

But Mitch looks a little determined and a little defiant. Dylan shouldn’t find it intriguing. “Then call me, asshole. Or text me. You have my number.”

“What, like we’re friends?”

She expects a wounded face and a drop of subject but Mitch actually shrugs, his face more composed than she likes. “Aren’t we?”

Her instinct is to almost laugh in his face, but when she actually thinks about it, about the way she treats Connor and Brinksie…her version of friendship includes giving shit (which she does with Mitch _constantly_ ), harassing the hell out of them (another check for Mitch), and not giving an inch in any direction (she’s going three for three, here).

“Shit,” she says, though there’s no heat in it. When she looks at him again, it’s with a slight glare. “Fine. But if you so much as breathe negativity towards _Dancing With the Stars_ -”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’ll end me,” Mitch says, but Dylan thinks she sees something that might be a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Tell it to someone who hasn’t grown up across the faceoff circle from your ugly mug.”

She squawks and grabs him, gets him in a headlock until she can rub her knuckles into his hair. He struggles and yells, but they’re in the middle of crowds of hockey players and their families who know better than to even bother. Dylan’s grin is smug as hell when he finally says uncle and she wonders if maybe this ‘friendship’ thing with Mitch won’t be the worst decision she’s ever made.

 

Sometimes, Dylan forgets that even Connor, with all of the pressure on his shoulders and composure he generally has in front of those millions of eyes on him, occasionally does stupid shit. Like getting into fights on the ice when that is so, so far from his job. Like getting into a fight on the ice and breaking his hand, risking his chances of making the World Juniors team.

Connor McDavid got into a fucking fight and broke his hand.

She’s going to kill him.

When she’d told Mitch in the summer it would take something monumentally stupid for Connor to screw up his chances of going first, this is very, very, very far from what she meant. She should know better, making predictions like that. The hockey gods are never kind. No one knows that better than Dylan herself.

Connor’s on the good drugs when he’s finally released, but that doesn’t stop Dylan from shoving him when they get back to the hotel - hard. He almost stumbles into the wall, but she gets her hand on his sleeve. “You’re a fucking moron.”

He’s giving her puppy eyes and Dylan does consider giving in. He did just break his hand, after all. But. “Can we do this tomorrow?”

No, not they can’t, because Dylan knows damn well if they leave it, she’ll stew on it all night. “World Juniors, Davo.”

He drops his head and Dylan’s forced to tug on his sleeve again to make sure he doesn’t faceplant into what is likely gross wallpaper. “I know.”

“You were going to show them that no matter how good Eichel is, you still deserve to go first.” Because yes, Jack Eichel is damn good, but she’s no Connor McDavid. Dylan is firmly not biased.

He looks at her with wide eyes. “You don’t think-”

“No. Of course I don’t think that’s enough. God, you’re a dumbass. Thank god you’re good at hockey.”

Connor looks wounded but Dylan barely spares him a blink. “I have to go first, Dyl.”

She almost stumbles, half because he puts a little more weight on her than she’d anticipated and because she’s never heard that tone in his voice before. Sure, Connor gets vulnerable and hurt and he has bad and lonely days the same way she does but he doesn’t doubt his hockey. He _never_ doubts his hockey.

“You’re going first.”

“I broke my hand.”

“Not forever.”

“I won’t make World Juniors.”

“Like _fuck_ you won’t make World Juniors, you goddamn jackass-”

“Or play against Eichel and _win_.” Because Connor is a hockey player and just as much of a competitive shit. He’s just better at hiding it, Dylan knows.

“Connor.”

His eyes are glassy from the drugs and she bites the inside of her cheek because he’s _never_ looked like this, in the three years she’s known him. She’s the one that makes the wounded noise and backs him up gently until he’s against the wall. She can’t do this and support him at the same time. God, this is terrifying. She is not good at this.

“Fuck, Connor, I’m only saying this once, I do not care how high you are right now.”

His eyes flutter and he sighs like he’s going to pass out right against the wall. Dylan brings her hands up in an entirely uncharacteristic show of… Jesus, she doesn’t know what, but she gets her palms on Connor’s cheeks regardless. It’s startling enough that his eyes fly open.

“You are _the best_. There’s… Eichel’s got nothing on you, okay? You’re Connor Mc-fucking-David and no one gets to take that away from you. The Next One, Hockey Jesus, remember?”

“Not if I don’t go first.”

“Okay, you get a pass because you’re high as fuck right now, but seriously. You think you’re not going first because you broke your hand like the utter dumbass you are?”

He huffs. “You can’t insult me and be nice to me at the same time.”

Dylan only raises an eyebrow because they both damn well know Dylan will do whatever the fuck she wants. “Insults are how I show love. And I am not nice.”

His smile is crooked and adorable and Dylan sighs, wrestling herself under his arm again. It’s only a couple more feet to his room and then she can dump him and go wallow in peace.

He broke his fucking hand.

She dumps him against the door, has no compunction about shuffling through the pockets of his jeans until she finds his key card and jams it in the lock. The door opens with a beep and she manhandles him into the room and onto the bed. He manages to catch her on the way down and Dylan yelps as she collapses with him.

“Ow.” Connor’s face is wrinkled as she wrestles herself up enough to see it.

“Serves you right, asshole.” As much as Dylan wants to go back to her room and wallow, mourn, process through that moment of fear and worry and _what the fuck did you just do, Davo_ she pushes herself in closer instead. His arm wraps around her as tight as he can make it, heavy and warm.

“Stromer,” he whispers and her eyes close because she knows exactly what’s coming next. “What if I don’t go first?”

They don’t talk about the pressure he’s under, not really. He’s always so poised and composed and just so damn Connor that it’s easy to think that the media, the coach, the way the team always, always looks to him, doesn’t so much as register on his radar. It’s easy to pretend that Connor’s just there to play hockey and the rest of it is… well, irrelevant. She knows better, of course, but he’s so damn good at pretending it’s not on his mind that sometimes, she forgets too.

“You’re going to go first,” she whispers back. “Davo, you are going fucking first in the draft. You’re too good.”

“Everyone will be disappointed if I don’t. Everyone.”

She legitimately doesn’t know how to handle this. She’s not good with vulnerability. With feelings. “I won’t.”

“Dylan.” And he sounds frustrated, like he thinks she’s placating him.

“Shut up, I won’t,” she hisses, harsh and angry. “Fuck you.”

He makes a pathetic noise and Dylan looks up at him again, at all of the anger, the sadness, the fear in his face. Jesus. She can’t. She really, really can’t. So she pushes herself up just a little, just enough to kiss him because she doesn’t know what else to do, how else to tell him.

_I won’t be disappointed._

_I could never be disappointed in you._

_No one is better than you._

It’s everything she can’t say (or won’t, she’s never quite sure how that works) and she lets him keep kissing her, over and over and over, until he can lean back into the pillows, his body more pliant and relaxed than it has been since he was on the ice. His eyes droop once, then twice, and he’s out a moment later, leaving Dylan awake and wired and confused and…

She slips from the bed and doesn’t bother trying to tug the bedding from beneath him, just drags the duvet off the other one to cover him up. She makes sure he’s in a position least likely to jar his hand and snatches up the keycard she’d used to get him in here in the first place.

Then she runs.

Well, escapes really, because she slips into her room with her hand already hovering over the call button beside Mitch’s name. God, she can’t even believe she’s considering this, but out of all the names on her phone asking about Connor’s well-being, Mitch’s has been the most prevalent. Besides Brinksie, but it’s _Brinkie_.

“Twitter says it’s his hand.”

Dylan blows out a breath. “Twitter’s right. Six weeks.” She has no idea why she’s telling Mitch of all people. She could call Ryan or she could hunt Brinksie down. Instead, she sinks to the floor between the two beds in her room and drops her head to her knees, the phone still pressed to her ear.

“Fuck.”

She laughs, but it’s not amused.

“They can’t cut him.”

“They wouldn’t,” Dylan agrees, despite the rock in her stomach. Six weeks is Christmas Eve, and even if the World Juniors are in Canada this year, she’s not stupid enough not to think that’s really, really tight. “Right?”

“No.”

Some of the tension drains out of her at the utter conviction in his voice.

“They’d be dumb to, Stromer. This is _McDavid_.”

“You hate him.”

“I hate you.”

She barks out a laugh, feels a little more of that tension bleed out of her shoulders. “You do not.”

“Okay. I hate Max though. Did you hear what he did to the locker room when we were in Guelph last week?”

Dylan leans her head back on the bed and lets Mitch talk to her, story after story about Max and Dvorak, the baby rookies whom she can never name but Mitch always makes sure to know. She lets it lull her until Mitch clears his throat and kind of startles her.

“You know, that’s going to be us next year.”

“Hm?” Dylan murmurs, drowsy now from the release of adrenaline, the game, the late hour.

“Max and Davo. World Juniors. That’s going to be us.”

Dylan blows out a bit of a heavy breath. She wants to make this year more than anything, but there are plenty of guys who are older. Not necessarily better than she is, but she knows her own shot is long.

“You think so?”

“Please.”

She laughs and it trails off into a hum. “World Juniors.”

“Team Canada. Just like the U-17.”

“God I hope not,” Dylan says and even she can hear the lightness in her voice now. “You were hell on my wing.”

“Excuse you.” But she can hear a pleased note in his voice, whether it’s because they’ll get to play together or because she sounds better than she did twenty minutes ago, Dylan’s not up to inspecting. Regardless, there isn’t much heat in it. “It’ll be awesome.”

She lets herself imagine it, less in regards to playing with Mitch again and more in regards to playing for Team Canada, for representing her country. And yeah, okay, maybe it would be kind of cool to have Mitch right there with her. She blows out a breath and tugs at the elastic holding her damp hair in place. “He’s going to make it though.”

“Of course he is, don’t be stupid. He’s fucking McJesus. Asshole.”

“I wasn’t the one doubting him.”

“I wasn’t doubting him!” she squawks.

Mitch puts on a high, squeaky voice that sounds nothing like her, thanks, when he says, “What if he doesn’t make it, Marner? What if they don’t pick him?”

“I hate you.”

(Connor does indeed make it back for World Juniors and he does beat Jack Eichel. Mitch texts her a whole bunch of ‘I told you so’s, but they both know he’s just as excited as she is. And when Connor comes back with gold, Dylan thinks all is right in the world again.)

 

Dylan is utterly unsurprised to find she’s rooming with Jack for the Combine. It’s something that just tends to happen when there’s more than one girl around and she’s pretty sure Trixie’s rooming with one of the WHL girls, the traitor. Still, Dylan can admit it’s a welcome change to the loneliness of the road. She loves her Otters, and they love her, but it’s not quite the same.

Still, when Dylan proposes they hang out, Jack kind of gives her this look like she might be insane. “You’re Connor’s friend.”

Both of Dylan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh huh. Is that going to be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t you, I don’t know, go bow at his altar or something?”

Dylan barks out a loud laugh and flops back beside Jack on her bed. “Do I need to pull out the ‘girls stick together’ card?”

Jack still looks a little confused. “You’re Connor’s.”

“Dude, what? No. Like… no.”

“But-”

“Nuh uh.” Dylan rolls her eyes. It’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last time she has to set the record straight on this one. “Look. Connor’s mine. It doesn’t work the other way around.”

Jack doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, even with that, the two of you are still…” she makes some weird hand gesture that Dylan can’t figure out but nonetheless looks a little dirty.

“Okay, I don’t know what that means,” she wheezes around a laugh. “But just because he’s my boy doesn’t mean we can’t be friends too, yeah?” She gives her giant Bambi eyes, something she knows makes her look plainly ridiculous. “Look, you can’t leave me with these guys, okay Eichs? Eiiiiiiiichs.”

Jack snorts despite herself and Dylan considers that a win. “I’ve seen your stuff, you handle yourself all right. So what do you suggest?”

She considers it. Bad food is out since it’s Combine, alcohol even more so (plus, they’re in Buffalo). “Bad TV?”

“Hell yes.”

They get through two episodes of _Dancing With the Stars_ because Dylan is stubborn and cheats at rock, paper, scissors, apparently, before she glances over at Jack. She can see the glazed look in her eyes, and she’s chewing on her lower lip. So, like any good friend, Dylan pitches a pillow at her.

“What the fuck!”

Dylan laughs, of course she does, because Jack looks so offended before she pitches the pillow back at Dylan’s face, twice as hard as Dylan had first thrown it at Jack. Dylan bats it aside.

“It’s not my fault. I had to do something. Your feelings are leaking and making me uncomfortable.”

“They are not.”

Dylan can not only hear the lie but she can damn well see it. The smile drops off her face. “Yo, Eichs-“

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dylan considers the other woman for a moment, tilts her head. She does consider, quite seriously, letting it go. They’re not exactly the type of friends that can push each other into talking and it’s never been Dylan’s way anyway. She’s just as good as any other hockey player at playing emotionally stunted.

Thing is, she’s Connor’s best friend. Which means, even if she and Jack hadn’t spent time together and hadn’t known each other before the Combine, she is at least peripherally aware of who Jack is and what Jack is putting up with. Since she is Connor’s friend, she also gets a front row seat to what his kind of media attention the rivalry gets and a front row seat for what it means to be a girl behind Connor.

Jack huffs and flops back. Dylan just barely resists smirking as she settles a little more comfortably. She can definitely wait Jack out.

Ten minutes later, Dylan’s retracting that statement. She absolutely cannot wait Jack out and contemplates the merits of wrestling it out of her. She’s taller, but Jack is built like a brick shithouse. Maybe if the situation is dire. “Look, no one knows how you feel better than I do.”

“Then why don’t you hate him?” Jack clamps her mouth shut, clearly annoyed that she’s been goaded into speaking.

She shrugs, wondering if there’s a way to put it so that Jack will understand. “Because it’s never been about that. We’re fucking amazing hockey players already, so how can we not light it up when we’re together? So yeah, they can say whatever the hell they want because it doesn’t matter.”

Jack shakes her head. “I can’t do that. They always expect him to better and that’s just not - I can’t fucking stand it.”

And suddenly Dylan gets it. It’s not that the standings don’t matter - she’s not that naive, thank you very much. But she’s never been conscious of comparing herself to Connor, not when their paths are more or less the same. She opens her mouth to explain it, then closes it again, unsure if it’s something she can actually put into words that Jack will understand, considering her own vendetta. So instead, Dylan says, “I get it. Sort of.”

Jack looks entirely disbelieving. “That sounds fake, but okay.”

Dylan sits up, delighted. “Oh my god. I thought you were just a grumpy cat but look, there’s life in you!”

“Lies.” But for the first time that night, Jack actually smiles.

Jack may have a weird thing against Connor, but Dylan thinks they’re going to get along just fine.

Over the next few days, Jack pretty much kills everyone in nearly every test. Even on the fucking VO2, which everyone knows is a killer. Dylan’s impressed. So is Connor, who literally cannot shut up about it almost every time they see one another. She’d tell Jack, but she probably wouldn’t find it nearly as amusing.

So she tells Noah Hanifin, who seems to be Jack’s wrangler every bit as much as she’s Connor’s. “Does he have a crush?” he asks, amused.

“Probably the beginnings of one,” she replies, grinning. Gosh, he’s pretty. “Wouldn’t that be the story of the decade?”

“She would eat him alive.”

“Are you kidding me? He’d love that.” It’s inevitable, really. In fact… “Twenty-five bucks says they hook up next year at the All-Star Game.” Because there’s no way they won’t be there for the rookie pool.

He shakes his head. “World Cup. You’re on.”

She spits in her hand and holds it out with a raised eyebrow. Noah laughs as he does the same.

 

“The Edmonton Oilers select Connor McDavid.”

Dylan’s face probably looks fucking stupid. She knows it does. It has to. She is just so fucking proud of him and doesn’t have words for how it feels to watch him take the stage, to pull those damn Oilers’ colours over his head.

Not five days ago he’d been lamenting the inevitability of Edmonton and she had sympathized the hell out of him for that, but now, now as she looks at him, as she watches him as _the first fucking pick_ she is so, so, so fucking proud.

She’s still reeling with it when Jack goes second (of course she does), and is still so caught up in it that she almost misses the phrase, “The Arizona Coyotes select Dylan Strome.”

It’s surreal to take the stage and she catches sight of Connor with the widest grin on his face, clapping just outside of the curtains that will take him to the press. She’s shaking as she pulls the jersey over her head, her grin permanently attached to her face. It feels like it takes forever to do the official pictures and get backstage, but when she does, she hunts Connor down.

She throws herself at him, the same way she would if they were celebrating a goal. He catches her easily, holds on tight as she wraps herself around him. They’d done it. They’d both been drafted to the fucking NHL and while Dylan’s pretty sure she won’t be playing in the show this season, Connor will and that’s awesome.

He’s awesome.

They’re fucking awesome.

“Saw them pick you,” he says into her hair, arms squeezing her tight, the bright red of her jersey clashing against his gross Oilers’ colours. “Dylan.”

And he sounds so proud of her, so, so amazed that she feels her eyes tear up. “Shut up you asshole,” she says, squeezes a little tighter and doesn’t care that she’s probably cutting off his oxygen. “You went first.”

He barks out a laugh and she feels his nose against the hinge of her jaw. She knows there are cameras, there are people capturing this moment that should just be her and Connor, the two of them who had come so far and done so much together.

“Couldn’t have without you.”

“Jesus, you’re a sap.” But she’s really not doing much better, the lump in her throat making it hard to breathe. She unwraps her legs from around his waist when she hears the commotion of the next pick, steps away from him and back towards the curtains. Her breath catches again when Mitch steps through in blue and white, their hometown Leafs.

“Oh my God,” is all he says, and she’s not quite as upset as she maybe should be when he grabs her first, wraps her up the same way Connor had. It feels the same and so different as she hugs him back, ducks down to bury her face in his shoulder.

She can only imagine how Mitch is feeling. As a kid growing up in the GTA, it’s a _dream_ to play for the Leafs. Now he’s living it. “You did it,” she laughs, pulling away to ruffle his hair and he doesn’t even protest.

“They picked me.” He sounds so dazed.

Connor, the big idiot, throws his arms around both of them, ignoring the fact that the NHL people are starting to make noises because Mitch has interviews to get to. This is their moment and they’re going to enjoy every second, damn it.

She catches sight of Jack, looking awkwardly out of place by the wall, having clearly finished her interviews.

Like hell if she’s letting her out of this. They’ve come to an understanding since the Combine and honestly, it’s just fun to make her uncomfortable. “Eichs!” she calls, reaching out with one hand. “Group hug!”

Connor squeaks a little bit and Mitch’s head pops up with a familiar gleam in his eyes because Connor is so not subtle in his burgeoning feelings for her. “Nah,” Jack begins, looking a little hunted. “You-”

Enter Noah, flushed and bright-eyed and freshly picked by Carolina. He takes one look at the situation and beams, sweeping Jack up and into the group hug in one fluid motion. Bless him. “You guys!” he crows and the cameras go nuts, so screw the NHL people.

“Oh my god, can we not do the kumbaya moment?” Jack mutters, squished between Dylan and Noah.

“Shut up, Eichs,” Mitch says cheerfully. “And just enjoy the moment. We’ve been _drafted_.”

Hell yeah they have.

 

The Coyotes cut her on the last possible day. Which sucks, even though she’s going back to Erie and there is some comfort in getting back to her boys. Or, at least, that’s what Dylan had expected until Coach pulled her aside at their first practice.

“We don’t expect you to fill Connor’s shoes,” he says, too serious for the conversation.

Which, Dylan kind of blinks for a minute, taken entirely off guard. “Thanks?”

“Connor was - is -” Yeah, that’s a stumble Dylan _totally_ gets. “A special player.”

She knows that. Intimately. She bites back a little laugh at her own double entendre. Instead she nods as solemnly as she can, promises she’s just here to do her best and gets back on the ice.

It feels a bit like coming home.

Plus, Dylan is a fucking good player. Returning to the O is amazing and wonderful - and it’s right in the belt where global warming and chinooks are a thing and not in fucking Edmonton where it gets cold as balls, thanks - and Dylan isn’t pressured by the body that’s missing. Connor’s playing in the show and Dylan knew long before Draft Day that she was going to have to play without him.

Dylan Strome is not Connor McDavid. More, she doesn’t need Connor McDavid. He’s amazing and wonderful and she misses him like a phantom limb but Dylan doesn’t need Connor to succeed. She doesn’t need to step out of his shadow because for her, he never cast one.

He was just Connor, he is just Connor. Just thousands of miles away and hopefully freezing his ass off because serves him right for being so damn good. And she’s still Dylan.

It’s entertaining really. She doesn’t play any differently than she had when she and Connor were linemates. She spends more damn time with him on the phone than is probably strictly healthy for their strange ass codependency thing, but they’re Dylan and Connor and that’s normal. The media still tells her that she’s ‘doing so well, even without the first pick’ and seems perpetually surprised that she can lead her team and destroy rivals without the phenom at her side.

Connor, too, finds this amusing. Which is fucking brilliant, really.

“It’s like I never skated,” she says to him after she catches a TSN snippet where the pundits sound actually surprised that she’s lighting it up. “Like…they think you did all the work or something.”

He’s laughing before she finishes the sentence, all but cackling into the phone and it makes her smile.

“I mean, you’re good and everything but who the hell was going to pass to you to get you all those fucking points?”

It’s funny because it’s true. Connor’s amazing and she’ll never, ever, ever say he’s not (she’s _played_ with him for fuck’s sake, if anyone’s aware of how fucking great Connor is, it’s her) but Connor can’t play hockey alone and she knows people forget about her, about Mitch and Hanny and Max down in Arizona too. Hell, they forget about Jack sometimes in the bright shiny object that is a generational talent.

Still, it’s hilarious in the way that screams ‘narrative’ and ‘media story’. It also means it’s surprisingly anti-climactic for her when the Otters name her captain. The whole rookie class sends her congratulations, including Jack which Dylan is finding a little less weird the more contact she has with her American counterpart.

Connor, of course, calls.

“I think Brinksie wanted it,” she tells him, foot bouncing lazily in the air where she’s crossed it over her knee.

“Maybe,” Connor concedes because sometimes when she looks at the roster, Dylan legitimately believes the Otters are fucking _stacked,_ with or without him. “But you deserved it.”

So, the media can say whatever the fuck they want. She has all the support - from the team and from her friends - that she needs.

 

The Erie Otters aren’t playing the day that Connor goes into the boards. Dylan knows this, because she has to fucking watch him do it. She’s played with the dude long enough to know when he’s been injured, to understand and read the look on his face when it happens.

She is, she is happy to admit, livid at first. She picks up the phone and calls him, is not at all surprised to get his voicemail and just rips him apart: “How dare you get hurt in your first damn season, against the goddamn Flyers and if it’s a fucking concussion, Davo, I will get on a plane and kick your ass myself, do you even remember how long Crosby was out?”

It makes her feel better, even though she knows he won’t get it for hours. In the meantime, she fields texts from everyone else on the Otters, a couple of the Team Canada guys and, of course, Mitch.

_hey bud, looks like no more fwb for a while._

Dylan rolls her eyes because Mitch is an asshole. Then she types out. _he’s in edmonton idiot. u just wish it were u._

Not that he’s wrong. She and Connor were almost the worst kept secret of the Otters, let alone World Juniors. Sometimes, Dylan despairs of the moment Marner found out. Not that she’d cared. At that point, they’d hated each other and Dylan has always been utterly unapologetic about the way she runs her life.

_fuck off, i do not. im not into davo’s sloppy seconds._

Which, honestly, just about destroys Dylan. She laughs for a long time off of that one. The best thing about her arrangement with Connor had been the fact that both of them knew it wasn’t going anywhere after Erie. For one thing, Dylan’s not blind, and if she hadn’t seen the way Connor watched Jack’s hockey with an admiration that was not just one amazing rookie to another, she was _definitely_ paying attention at the draft and rookie camp, not to mention the Everglades and Combine.

The point is, she’s really not Connor’s sloppy seconds. They used each other to learn a hell of a lot and by the end, she’d had some really great sex. Then sent him off to Edmonton to use those skills on some other deserving woman.

(Dylan has her suspicions on that one, but she is keeping her damn mouth shut. Best friends do not spill secrets. Even when those best friends are guys like Connor who sometimes need a push in the right direction. And so long as those people she’s not sharing secrets with doesn’t include Noah Hanifin, who, if Dylan understands right, is currently battling the same damn issue. It’s another text thread that throws her off whenever she taps into it.)

She watches the rest of the game half convinced Connor really does have a concussion, half her mind on chirping Mitch back about how she is better on the Otters without Connor and just wait until World Juniors, she was going to show him right up. She’s still riding a nasty edge of worry when the game ends and there’s still no news.

 _be okay, bud_ , she eventually texts Connor and ends up passed out waiting for a response.

Connor calls when she’s in class because he is dumb and timezones suck. But the moment Dylan gets a chance, she hits her speed dial.

“Broken collarbone,” he says, sounding just terrible. “Out indefinitely.”

“Dude,” Dylan manages to breathe, because she honestly doesn’t know what else to say. This was his fucking year and Dylan knows it. Everyone knew it. She feels just as devastated as she’s sure the rest of the nation does. He was going to _light it up_.

He sighs. “They want me to have surgery.”

She chews her lip for a moment, not at all a fan. Jesus. “And you?”

“I want to play hockey.”

It’s such a flashback for her, his broken hand because he’d managed to get into a fucking fight and the look on his face when they’d told him he may not be cleared for Juniors. God, he is _such a moron_. But that’s not why he calls her and that is not her job here. Instead, she rolls her eyes.

“So get better, doofus,” she tells him. “What do you have to do to get better?”

“Have surgery.”

Ugh. Right. Shit. “Then have surgery. Who knows, maybe you’ll set off the metal detectors when you come home.”

His laugh is awkward, but it’s there and she feels accomplished.

 

The next time Connor calls, she’s a week into Team Canada World Juniors camp. She’s exhausted from the training (because even if she is a sure thing for the team, she will fucking earn that spot, thank you very much) and he ends up waking her from an impromptu nap.

“Jack was here.”

Dylan’s half asleep and vaguely panicking over her schedule because there’s team dinner and- “I’m sorry what? _What?!_ ”

“The guys played the Sabres two days ago. I thought you followed my games.”

“They’re not your games if you’re not on the ice,” she says, an automatic chirp that has her wincing because she knows how Connor gets when he can’t play. “Sorry. You woke me up.”

He grunts.

Dylan pushes on. “So she was in town for the game? Did you guys, like, hang out or something?”

She’s skeptical, so sue her. Jack has made it clear she has absolutely no time for anything but hockey to literally the whole world. Dylan’s seen the interviews. Jack is really, incredibly not subtle. She and Noah have a long string of frustration-laced texts about the McDavid vs. Eichel circus.

“Um. Or something?”

And because she is Dylan and he is Connor the whole story comes spilling out at once. Dylan’s not even wholly sure he breathes once through the whole thing. She knows she doesn’t.

“You _slept_ together?! Fuck.”

“Exactly.”

And no. Just no. He does not get to sound so smug. “One, fuck you. If it was good for her, you owe me a really nice fruit basket.”

“You hate fruit baskets.”

“Two,” she barrels on, warning in her voice. “She hates your guts.”

“You and Marns seem to work out okay.”

She knows he can hear her raised eyebrow through the phone. Connor knows very well she and Mitch aren’t, well, anything. Cuddle buddies, but she cuddles with Brinksie when they’re on the road too. And if Dylan spends a lot of time texting Mitch about the latest _Dancing_ results, she’s just proud she’s roped him into the insanity with her.

“Shit. Sorry.”

“Uh huh.”

She lets him moan and groan until she has to go to dinner, Mitch calling through the door that they’re going to be late and seriously, it’s not like she has assets to emphasize. She punches Mitch in the arm, promises Connor to call him later, and drags Mitch to the elevator, her arm around his neck in a killer headlock.

Still. She ends up texting Jack, her knee bouncing under the table. _so i hear u defiled mcjesus. ur welcome._

_fuck off._

Well. At least the world hasn’t turned completely on it’s head.

 

They lose their first game of the World Junior Tournament to the US. Group play or not, Dylan hates losing to the US, even when she scores a goal, and Mitch, despite having assisted on her goal, hadn’t exactly played lights out either. So when he follows her back to her room after the game, she really doesn’t think much of it and even lets him tug her to the bed, suits and all.

Her breath whooshes out of her when she finally starts to relax, to try and let go of the disappointment behind losing their first bloody game.

“Sorry,” Mitch says after probably longer than he should. “I should have played harder.”

“God, please don’t whine,” Dylan replies, though it’s into his shoulder so she’s not sure how effective it is. “We all fell asleep. Don’t be selfish.”

Her phone interrupts his next complaint and she swears viciously into his jacket. She knows exactly who that’ll be. It’s only 1:30 in the afternoon in Edmonton. Sure enough, it’s Connor’s dumb face on the screen and Dylan sighs. “Davo.”

“It was a fucking great game,” is the first thing that Connor says. “Dyls, it was a fucking great game.”

Yeah, it had been. There’s a lot of great things that Team Canada had done on the ice, a lot of pushing and pressure, just not conversion. It’s the conversion that’s a problem, though she thinks maybe Connor understands that more than most.

She looks down at Mitch when his arm tightens around her waist. His face looks weird when he calls out, “Hey Davo.”

“Hi Marns.”

Except, of course, Mitch can’t hear it. Dylan pauses a beat. Mitch is not part of her post-losing-game pep talk with Connor and she’s not totally sure she wants him to be. Her weird codependency with Connor is so far from a secret and she’s incredibly protective of it. She’s protective of him and his little moments where he’s just Connor, her Connor. The press can have McJesus. She just wants her friend. So she eyeballs Mitch for a moment, considering.

Connor makes the decision for her. “Tell him he’s not allowed to chirp your skating, the way he played tonight.”

Hell no. She is not playing messenger girl. She rolls her eyes and puts the phone on speaker. “Tell him yourself. This ought to be good.”

“Davo.”

“Marns. I know you’ve already been drafted, but that’s my gold medal on the line there. You know you actually have to make the Leafs before you get to play like them, right?”

Dylan bites down hard on her laugh when Mitch makes an irritated noise. “You’re not even _playing_ -”

Dylan slaps her hand over Mitch’s mouth, her eyes narrowing. That’s just dirty pool. She knows for a fact that Connor is utterly devastated by how much hockey he’s _not_ playing and she knows Mitch is aware of this.

“You don’t chirp another dude about no hockey, asswipe,” she hisses because she knows if the situation were reversed Mitch would be _pissed_. Dylan has never had time for the weird posturing thing Mitch and Connor have inexplicably started up. They’d always seemed fine, even during the Combine and the draft. Recently, well, Dylan’s not so sure what happened.

“It’s fine,” comes Connor’s tinny voice, not sounding close to fine at all.

“No, it’s not,” Dylan argues, both because she misses arguing with Connor and because this is not something she’s willing to let Mitch get away with. He gets weird about her and Connor sometimes and Dylan feels like she’s being kept in the dark. It’s stupid, the thought that Brinksie and even fucking Pu over in London, know something she can’t seem to put her finger on.

But it’s Mitch, who in a surprising show of graciousness says, “Sucks you’re not playing, Davo.”

Connor grunts. Silence falls for a moment and it feels weird. Dylan doesn’t always like putting this on display, just what she and Connor mean to each other and just how far that goes. For one thing, it’s hers. For another, it’s hard to get over the idea of someone sharing this with the world, the shit she and Connor would both take if anyone ever found out just how many recent calls in her history are to and from him.

“Look, Dyls,” and Connor sounds so huffy, like he doesn’t like this either, but so determined too. The same tone he used as her captain, when she couldn’t get over a shitty play. “It’s promising okay? And it’s just a pre-tournie. You’re going to be fine when you hit the real thing.”

Dylan swallows and glances at Mitch. It’s all over his face, how weird this feels, but also the realization that this is something Dylan needs. Dylan needs Connor. Connor needs Dylan. The same way the Earth orbits the sun. She squeezes her eyes closed.

“You know the stats, Davo,” she says, voice quiet. “Lose to the US and Canada’s never gone on to win against them in the tournament. Lose the first game and we don’t even medal. Last time Team Canada didn’t medal was in Finland and-”

“Dylan.”

It’s a whip crack and Dylan’s mouth snaps shut.

“Stats are just numbers,” he says, as he has a hundred times, a thousand. Numbers are Dylan’s thing. She studies them, commits them to memory, uses them to adjust her play. She’s good at numbers. “Numbers don’t say anything about the people.”

“Connor.” She hates how small her voice sounds, even to her own ears.

“Hey. No. Don’t do this, okay? It’s your first fucking game, Stromer. You’re going to be fine.”

Warmth strokes down her stomach, fleeting but enough and she gasps. She’d let herself forget Mitch is curled around her. He looks stunned. It’s never been like this for them, this level of vulnerability and sure as hell not about hockey.

“Okay,” she says, though her eyes are still fixed on Mitch. “Okay.”

“Yeah, okay.” And Connor sounds so sure, so confident in her. “Play your game. Make the team catch up to you.”

 _I already am_ , she thinks to herself as she says a quiet goodbye and prepares herself for the chirping she’s about to get.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, Mitch, who is drawing weird absent circles over her shirt, says, “Would you ever, you know, date him?”

Dylan’s mouth legitimately drops open. She knows it’s not an attractive look, but _seriously?_ Sure, it’s a question she’s actually asked rather often, though the media is much more subtle about it, but from Mitch? From Mitch, who is tense and has this look on his face like her answer actually fucking matters?

“Fuck,” she says. “Hell no.”

He relaxes back into the pillows and seriously, what the actual hell?

“But you and he…”

She rolls her eyes. “Dude. You guys hit it and quit it all the time. Davo and I were friends with benefits for years and that’s good.” She laughs a little. “It’s actually fucking great, but _date_ him?” She scoffs. “He can only dream.”

Mitch is quiet for a moment before he says, “Yeah.”

She rolls to her side and shoves herself up, braced on an elbow so she can see his face. He’s looking at her, vaguely constipated but fuck, _fuck_ because _what the actual hell?_ “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious right now?”

He shrugs at her, a little helplessly and fuck, no wonder she always has to wear the fucking pants around here. “You’re pretty cool, Stromer.”

It feels a bit like taking a sucker punch, even as she finds herself curling into his side just a little bit, draping herself closer than she’s really let herself before. There’s something that feels different this time though, a warmth in her stomach that she’s not wholly sure she’s ready to inspect too closely. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

He barks out a laugh, one arm wrapping around her back while the other draws lazy lines on her arm. “Yeah, but you’re here aren’t you? You want all this dumb.”

There’s a moment where they both look at each other, a little surprised. Dylan breaks first, a little giggle that has her head falling forward, braid swinging over her shoulder. Mitch isn’t far behind though. a choking sound before he’s using his arm wrapped around her back to tug her right over him.

 

Christmas is weird for two very, very good reasons: one, she’s in fucking Finland. And look, she is stoked about that, okay? Representing her country and she’s not doing a shabby job of it, thanks. She can’t carry the team, she knows that logically, but that’s not going to stop her from trying. Two, Connor isn’t here. Which, in itself, okay, is not exactly a _People_ -worthy moment, but Dylan’s still pretty used to having Connor within driving distance, at least, for the holiday season and knowing he’s across the ocean and timezones away from where they usually are is throwing her.

It feels strange to be curled up on her bed in her hotel room rather than her bed at home. It’s not that she regrets choosing Team Canada, it’s just that it is very, very hard to be away from home this time of year. The guys aren’t even helping and she’s usually good at letting her hockey team take the place of her family.

She feels so...restless. She can’t stay here any longer or she’s going to go absolutely bananas. It’s still barely light outside so she chucks on some winter gear and heads out to see what Rauma is like.

The signs mean absolutely nothing, which is a little strange. She’s been to her fair share of foreign countries but there’s usually something you can parse from the language, one way or another. Here, there’s pretty much no such thing. Whatever, she has her cellphone and Google Maps to keep her from getting completely lost. Some of the houses are completely charming, one-story tall and sprawling across the ground, painted in pretty pastel colors with long porches stretched in front.

The market on the square is small and cute. All the little stalls are bursting with fresh produce, fish, meat, anything you can think of. Dylan peers at some of the mushrooms, absolutely fascinated. Virts says his family goes and picks mushrooms and berries themselves, which is pretty damn cool. How they manage to pick the non-poisonous ones is beyond her.

Dylan stops in front of a stall packed with bread and baked goods, her eyes riveted on what look like rolled-up donuts sprinkled in sugar and filled with berries. It reminds her of her mom, who makes cinnamon donuts on Christmas morning. Homesickness swamps her so badly that she doesn’t even care about nutrition plans. Screw that. She’s in another country for Christmas, so she’s damn well going to have some sort of donut. With a lot of pointing and holding up fingers she walks away with half a dozen, which seems kind of excessive, but she has a plan. She pulls out her phone.

“Marns.”

“Stromer, what’s up?”

“I just bought donuts. Want to eat them with me?”

He lets out a funny little laugh-snort. “You know, I was about to grab some hot chocolate from this little market stall and ask you if you wanted some. Hot chocolate and donuts sounds good.”

“Market?” Dylan looks up and down the rows. “Are you in the little market in the square?”

“Yeah, why?”

It’s easy to spot him at the hot drinks stall - he’s equally kitted out in Team Canada gear. It’s so strange how happy she is to see him, knowing that someone else was feeling just as restless. The smile curls across her mouth before she even realizes it. “Because I’m here, too.”

And the thing is, beyond actually kind of wanting to spend time with him, their relationship has made some sort of monumental shift over the last couple of days. He hasn’t chirped her once about her hockey, though that could legitimately be because he’s too wrapped up in the feeling of his own failure, the pressure on everyone who hasn’t been able to put the puck in the back of the net.

Still, it’s easy to weave through the crowd and stop next to him waving the bag of donuts. He laughs at her and she valiantly fights down the idea that it’s brighter than it’s ever been.

“This is totally not in our diet plans.”

“Who cares?” Dylan shoots back, because yeah, Mitch is here and it feels inexplicably amazing, but she misses home. She is perfectly happy to throw her diet to shit for some comfort during the holidays. “It’s Christmas.”

There’s something surprisingly fond and wistful that zips across his face and Dylan’s heart lurches. “Yeah.”

It’s a silent kind of meandering that takes them back to their hotel, one that doesn’t bother her maybe as much as it should. They’ve had an understanding for over a year now, a friendship that is half based on how much shit they give each other and half on always being paired together: in the media, on the ice, and now like this, thousands of miles away in a foreign country.

The lobby is surprisingly busy, people flooding in and out, families and kids, couples with arms wrapped around each other. Dylan’s heart aches just a little because that’s something she misses and didn’t think she would.

A hand wraps around hers, still chilly from the cold but comforting nonetheless. Mitch squeezes her fingers once before dropping their hands. She smiles at him, glad that someone gets it.

It’s so easy, so comforting to curl towards each other on her bed with the box of donuts between them and their hot chocolate cupped in their hands. _Love Actually_ is playing, dubbed in Finnish. They take turns trying to pronounce the long strings of frankly unpronounceable words, giggling at how absolutely ridiculous they sound. Honestly, the only words Dylan’s been able to manage are _kiitos_ and _kippis._

“I still make Ryan watch this, you know,” she says absently, sipping at her hot chocolate. “He whines, but I think he actually likes it. He can quote more lines than I can.”

Mitch reaches over to get his cup off the side table, fixing his eyes on it like it has the answers to the universe and swirls it a little. “I still make Chris watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_. The original one, not the Jim Carey remake.”

“Good movie,” Dylan says. “We watched that forever.” She offers Mitch a rueful look. “Another movie Ryan can recite by heart.”

But a little melancholy has settled over them again, lonely despite the fact that they’re there together. Dylan finds herself fiddling with the edge of the donut box before Mitch lets out a disgruntled noise, then shoves them and his drink to the table on ‘his’ side of the bed. Then he’s rolling back towards her, over her and Dylan almost has to scramble to make sure they don’t get hot chocolate all over the bed.

“What the fuck are you-hey!”

Mitch manages to get the cup from her hand and slide it safely away. The next thing Dylan realizes, he’s curled himself around her, half on top of her, and she knows for a damn fact there’s no way he can see the movie from there. Her hands wrap around him reflexively and he squeezes her side.

“What the fuck, Marns?”

“We’re both depressed as shit, okay? This clearly calls for some aggressive cuddling.”

Dylan huffs, but it’s honestly nice, having him wrapped around her. She doesn’t feel quite so lonely in this foreign country and fucking losing. Mitch’s fingers are restless at the edge of her sweatshirt and she reaches down to still them. He twines their fingers together instead and Dylan swallows thickly. There’s a slide of warmth in her stomach at the intimacy that sends her heart pattering. He must be able to feel it from where his head’s pressed to her chest, but he says nothing. Not for a few minutes.

Then, “I have an idea.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what it is. And I know for a fact it is a genius idea.”

Dylan doubts it, but Mitch sounds like he’s pouting into her sweater and she almost wants to laugh. “Okay, fine. What is your genius idea?”

He’s darted off the bed a moment later, before she can so much as register he’s shifted. She makes a distressed noise that is so embarrassing, but he’s rolling his eyes and crawling back on the bed, phone in hand. He swipes his camera open with a few deft flicks and Dylan glares.

“We’re on a social media ban, asshole.”

Mitch snorts. “Texting and Snapchat are fair game.”

There’s something reassuring in that. Dylan’s an emotionally stunted hockey player but that does not mean she’s stupid. There’s something going on here and she sure as hell does not want the speculation of an Instagram picture. She still gets flack when she posts one of her and Connor.

Mitch shoves at her until she sits up and he can slot himself in behind her, his thighs spread around her hips. His very strong, solid thighs, she thinks, and almost physically shakes her head to dislodge that thought path.

“At least pretend you’re having fun,” Mitch grouses and Dylan tilts her head back to glare at him. But the moment she does and catches sight of his face, she feels that same zing down her spine, the awareness of where he is and how close he is. His eyes dart down to her mouth and Dylan quickly looks back towards the phone he’s holding up in front of them.

“What are you even doing?”

She hears him huff and very, very deliberately does not think about whether it’s in exasperation or disappointment. “We’re sending a picture to Davo.”

Dylan doesn’t squawk, no matter what Mitch says. “What the hell?” She struggles, but Mitch gets his arms around her shoulders, wraps his thighs over hers. She has the weight advantage, but they’re really close to the edge of the bed and she most certainly does not want to tumble them both to the floor. They have hockey to play.

“Come on, it’s like my all-time favourite activity.” He actually, legitimately pouts at her. It looks stupid through the camera. Or at least, that is one hundred percent going to be the way she justifies it until the end of time. It’s the only logical explanation for why she actually settles against him, a little smile on her face. He makes a noise once he’s taken the phone back.

“What?”

But he doesn’t answer, too busy tapping away. It isn’t until he’s already hit ‘send’ that he finally lets her look.

Dylan does squawk this time because the message attached to the photo reads, _makin’ time with ur gurl._

“What the fuck, Marner?!”

Mitch is giggling, actually laughing at her outrage. He dodges her hands as they swat at him, rocking with her when she tries to dislodge his legs from over hers. They both stop when the phone chimes and Mitch’s brow knits in confusion.

“A YouTube link? What the fuck, is this the nineties?” He taps it, opens the app and they wait for the shitty hotel wifi to load the video. And when it does, when the first chords of the song play out of the crappy phone speakers, Dylan absolutely loses it laughing.

_She be my queen_

_Since we were sixteen_

_We want the same things,_

_We dream the same dreams, alright_

But Mitch, embarrassing, shit-disturbing Mitch, actually hums along to the song. Dylan scrabbles for her own phone because there is no way in hell she is not Snapping this moment to everyone she knows.

Except it gets better, because right when the song ramps up to the chorus, Mitch belts out, “ _Everybody wanna steal my girl, everybody wanna take her heart away._ ”

He sings the whole fucking chorus and Dylan gets the whole thing for Snapchat. She can barely keep her fingers steady as she laughs through captioning the Snap ( _how embarrassing_ ). The guys are going to get such a kick out of this.

Mitch is still kind of grooving to the fading chords of the song and Dylan’s still grinning when the text comes in from Connor.

_glad ur having fun._

The song peters out and Mitch is grinning at her, wide and bright and Dylan feels That Thing tightens in her chest again. She really is having fun. A lot of fun. Her smile is also probably softer than it should be when she crawls back onto the bed and settles in against Mitch again.

“Thanks for sharing donuts with me,” is what she finally makes herself say, because it’s Christmas, and she’s startlingly grateful she’s not alone today.

Mitch’s eyes are full as he reaches out to squeeze her hand. “Anytime, Stromer.”

 

Honestly, New Year’s Eve kind of sneaks up on her. It’s drowned out in losses they shouldn’t take and lines that just cannot seem to jive together. It’s basically all hell.

So she’s not exactly in the greatest of moods, let alone thinking about how she wants to ring in the New Year.

“Yo, Stromer.”

Dylan arches an eyebrow as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder. “Point.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets. The team has been good about understanding her perspective on partying. They don’t push her like Brinksie does, as much as Dylan loves him. But she also knows that look, the one that says ‘we’re a team, be a team’ and bites back a sigh. “It’s New Year’s.”

Dylan opens her mouth to tell him she’s not going out. She’s really not in the mood to leave her hotel room, if she’s honest.

“We’re not going out,” he interrupts and okay, maybe that helps her to relax a little. “Crouser and Fleury are hosting.”

“Maybe going out is the better idea.”

It gets a bit of a smile out of him and for that Dylan’s grateful. They’ve all be so damn down, especially Point, Virts, Mitch: the guys who should be putting up more points and aren’t.

“We’ll get some food, chill out. I think Hicketts brought his PS4.”

So she goes, of course. New Year’s Eve with her team when they’re not feeling great; the mood in the room is kind of pathetic. So Dylan does what Dylan does best and flops back on the bed beside Mitch. “I’m not kissing any of you losers at midnight,” she announces.

Crouser, who is busy annihilating Charts with his beloved Panthers, spares her a curious glance as he says, “Even Trix?”

“Been there, done that,” Trixie says with a grin that Dylan returns.

The room explodes, all of them shoving at each other and Dylan shrieks when Mitch rolls right over her to get away from Fleury and Blackwood’s a-little-more-than-play fighting.

“Jesus, you’re heavy,” she says, but it’s without heat and maybe a little close to his ear for it to be a real chirp. Dylan’s spent the last few days thinking about Mitch’s stupid face and how close he’d been to kissing her. And how much she’d wanted it.

This is most certainly not helping.

Which is just dumb. Dylan knows better. She knows what proximity does for feelings because she’d gone through her obligatory crush-on-Connor phase (it had lasted maybe two hours, before she’d seen him shoveling spaghetti in his mouth like someone was going to take it off his plate) and she and Mitch have spent a freaking lot of time together over the last month. So she has no idea what the hell these feelings are or what they mean. She wants to shrug them off and tell herself that there’s nothing more to them than, well, proximity, but it’s not like she’s hunted down any of her guys that are here on other teams.

She’s spent time with Mitch.

A lot of time with Mitch.

She spent Christmas with him, curled up on her hotel bed, her fingers covered in donut sugar and hot chocolate on her tongue.

She’s acutely aware of his fingers at her hip, at the way her sweatshirt has maybe hitched up a little too far given she’s pretty sure she could count how many of his fingertips are hockey calloused right now. She’s opening her mouth to say something witty and cheerful when Fleury knocks into them both and she grabs for Mitch before he can go tumbling hard into Barzal.

Her breath catches in her throat because Mitch is so damn close and she feels the panic rise with something else.

Until Fleury tugs Mitch back, the hysterics settling down. “Details,” he demands.

Dylan groans. “It’s called experimentation, idiots. And while it was nice, we agreed we’re not into girls.”

“Trix, you never told me about this!” Crouser sounds betrayed and a little intrigued.

Trixie shoves at him. “Guys. Not a big deal. Now hurry up, it’s my turn!”

As the minutes tick closer to midnight, Dylan can feel the tension mounting, unwinding throughout her body. She’s acutely aware of every part of her that is pressed to Mitch, like those little patches of skin are charged with nerves and sparking out of control.

Now that the thought of kissing him is in her head, she can’t get it _out_ and she doesn’t have good impulse control, okay? She actually might just say screw it and tug him to her and that’s not exactly something she wants to do here, in front of everyone.

Why is this _happening?_ “Need the bathroom,” she grunts, heaving herself off the bed. Once inside and safely locked away, she flicks on the light and examines herself in the mirror. She hasn’t grown two heads. She doesn’t seem like the evil doppelganger version of herself. So when exactly did Mitch become an option? Is it because they’ve spent so much time together? Or is it something more?

The bathroom suddenly seems too small. That, or Dylan’s just going crazy. Either way, she needs to get out of there.

“Stromer!” she hears someone call as she bolts out the door but she doesn’t stop.

“Hey, hey.”

It’s Mitch, of course it’s Mitch, chasing her out of Crouser’s hotel room and looking...god, she doesn’t even know anymore.

“Marns, I-”

She cuts herself off when he reaches for her and catches her hand, tugging her out of the hallway and into one of the alcoves created by the hotel’s inset doors. Dylan feels her breath catch.

“It’s like, twenty seconds until New Year,” he says, and she’s pretty sure his voice isn’t supposed to be this low or this warm and she is definitely sure he shouldn’t be looking at her like he is, like she’s the coolest thing since Snapchat and a bit like he wants to eat her alive.

“Exactly. Like I’m going to risk having any of those assholes kiss me at midnight just because I’m one of the only girls.”

Mitch merely looks amused. “Not sure you’d cut it for Crouse, Stromer.”

Dylan snorts - as if she wants to hone in on Trixie’s territory - as Mitch tugs her in closer. His eyes flick down to her mouth and she feels her breath stutter. His eyes meet hers with a new sort of awareness and that must be what makes him bold enough to say, “Don’t kiss those assholes. Kiss me.”

She can hear their team down the hall, the chant of ‘ten, nine, eight’ as she watches Mitch. His expression doesn’t change, his chin tilted up maybe a little in bravery and Dylan can’t say that kissing Mitch is out of the cards. Not with the way her heart is pounding and her hands are shaking. She licks her lips subconsciously and watches his eyes drop down to her mouth again.

“Dylan,” he whispers, as the countdown comes down to ‘three, two, one’.

Mitch leans up and kisses her.

It’s not the simple kind of kiss she’d maybe share with one of her teammates or friends on nights like these. It’s not friendly and chaste. His mouth moves over hers with a surprising amount of finesse and while it’s not exactly her favourite way to be kissed, she knows her hands are squeezing his before she gets ahold of herself enough to kiss back.

They’re both panting when he pulls back and Dylan lets her eyes flutter open. There’s relief in Mitch’s face she hadn’t been expecting and she laughs a little, rough in her throat.

“How long have you wanted to do that?”

He has the grace to look a little sheepish and she refuses to so much as think it’s a good look on him. It’s not like one kiss should change her entire worldview, especially a kiss that wasn’t the greatest. Not that it had been a _bad_ kiss because Dylan is aware everyone kisses differently, but there’s still some training to be done here.

“Awhile,” he answers and untangles a hand from hers to rub at the back of his neck.

It’s her turn to be gracious, so she doesn’t push. She does, however, release a sigh. “Oh.”

Now the amusement is back, his eyes sparkling and how dare her brain go down that path. “Oh? I’m telling you I’ve wanted to kiss you since we were enemies in the GTA and all you can say is, ‘oh’?”

And then, like he’s realized just how much he’s revealed, his eyes go comically wide and Dylan feels the giggle climb her throat. “Honestly. You just _had_ to go the pigtail-pulling route, didn’t you? You couldn’t approach this like a normal person?”

“Stromer. What part of _any_ of this is normal?”

“Point,” she admits. “So, now what?”

He shrugs but there’s a smile tilting the corner of his mouth that Dylan recognizes as more than a little mischievous. “We could kiss some more?”

“There you guys are! Oh.” It’s Trixie, the little shit, whose face goes from a little bit stunned to absolutely smug. “Ha! I totally knew it! Crouser, you asshole, you owe me fifty bucks! Stromarner is _on_.” She bounces back into the room, beaming.

God, Dylan is going to kill her she thinks as her cheeks heat up. Thank the hockey gods that Mitch looks just as appalled.

“They had a _bet_?”

Okay, maybe not appalled so much as genuinely offended. Dylan wants to hit something. She and Mitch are not Connor and Jack, dammit!

“Marnstrome sounds so much better!” he hollers, trotting back into the room. Of course Mitch has been thinking of stupid portmanteau names for them.

Dylan takes everything back. Everything.

 

She cries when they get back to the locker room after losing to Finland. They’re ugly tears, frustrated tears, and she doesn’t care about anything except expelling the feelings of disappointment and failure. She doesn’t even shrug off the gross, sweaty hand that settles against the back of her neck.

They’ve been eliminated. In the quarter finals.

“God Dylan.” Of course it’s Mitch and she has to clench her hands so she doesn’t just wrap herself around him. “I’m sorry. Dylan, I’m so sorry.”

She shakes her head, harder than she should because it makes her a little dizzy. Her chest hurts from more than just the bruise from the boarding. Her hand flails out and he makes a pained noise as he catches it, holds it. It’s so gross, but Dylan needs the touch.

“Not you-” she manages to gasp out. “Not your fault.”

“I couldn’t make anything happen.”

She lets out a little whimper, gets her arm around his neck and yanks him in. “Don’t. Don’t do that. I’m proud of you.”

His arms wrap around her awkwardly. A moment later Crouser is there, too, curling around Dylan’s other side. Trixie’s next and somehow it turns into a giant dogpile of sweaty, sad hockey players.

“We should have done better,” she hears someone say. She thinks it might be Hicketts. “We should have been better.”

“Last time Canada didn’t make the top three was-”

“Finland,” a couple of morose voices echo.

No one says anything else, no platitudes about playing their best or whatever. That’s for later, and for the media. Right now, they’re allowed to be as heartbroken as they feel. Dylan leans against Mitch, closes her eyes, and lets the tears keep coming.

It feels like it takes forever for them to start moving away from each other, to start reaching for shower bags and towels, shucking pads and jerseys. Dylan can’t even look at hers, staring into the shadows of her stall while she folds it carefully. Maybe she’ll sign it and sell it for charity. She’s pretty sure she won’t be able to keep it after this disappointing showing.

She’s still sniffling when they get back to the hotel and she finally reaches for her phone. She has so many messages and a couple of missed calls but there’s only one that matters right now. She presses the phone to her ear even as she lets Mitch wrap an arm around her.

“You’re crying on national television,” Connor says in lieu of a real greeting.

“Fuck you.” And there is heat in it. It had been her moment, a personal one and yeah, she hadn’t been able to hold back the emotions but she does not need this right now. Mitch’s arm tightens around her and she leans into him, letting him take some of her weight and maybe some of her disappointment.

Not that he’s doing much better and they both damn well know he’s taking this harder than she is. She’s had a hell of a tournament. Mitch, well. Even with the media block they agreed to as a team, some things slip through. It’s nothing compared to what Virts has been taking but it’s still not great.

She sighs into the phone as Mitch reaches over to call the elevator. “We couldn’t defend your title.”

“Fuck, Dyls, you think I care about that?”

“Canada does,” she mutters sullenly.

“Canada can fuck off.”

And Connor never says that. He’s more patriotic than Sid. Not that Dylan has the best reference for Sid’s patriotism. It makes her snort, though it sounds a little watery.

“Dylan. I love you, okay? You had a hell of tournament.”

She murmurs a thanks and goodbye before she loses it again, climbing on the elevator and ignoring all personal space as she presses up against Mitch’s side. “My room?”

“Sure.”

Trixie’s just leaving when she and Mitch make it to the room, already dressed in pajamas. “I won’t be back.”

Dylan’s not surprised and she’s not judging. What Trixie has with Crouser is between them and Dylan’s not going to pry. Especially since Trixie hasn’t once pried into whatever it is she’s been doing with Mitch all tournament. Double especially because whatever Trixie’s doing with Crouser, probably resembles the reason she allows Mitch into the room.

When the door closes, Mitch immediately shoves her towards her bed, knocking her down and shifting her until he’s comfortable. Kind of. His nose is against her cheek, his body pressed tight to hers and they’ve cuddled so many times before, but there’s a heavy tension here. The same one from New Year’s Eve, just a little hum between them.

“Stromer,” Mitch murmurs. “Dylan.”

He nudges at her jaw until she turns her head, until he can press his mouth to hers. It’s fast and rough and desperate the minute the kiss begins, a battle of teeth, of tongues, more than a little ferocious. She lets him roll over her, lets him push her back into the pillows. She even lets him slide his hands under her sweatshirt.

They make out for a little longer before he pulls back and looks down at her, pressed between thighs she doesn’t remember spreading. “Yeah?” he asks softly, his hands tugging the edge of her sweatshirt.

Dylan bites her lip even as she runs her fingers through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. She wants him, her body is telling her so but…but nothing. She’s sad, he’s sad.

She needs this.

“Yeah,” she finally says.

Mitch pulls her shirt over her head.

 

They stay that way, attached at the hip, the entire way home. It should be weird. It should be frightening, how reluctant she is to even move away from him, but Mitch gives every indication that he feels exactly the same way. The entire team is like that and no one has the energy to chirp them about it anyway. Trixie just smiles, tucked firmly under Crouser’s arm.

At baggage claim Mitch shuffles behind her, his arms winding around her waist, burying his face between her shoulder blades. She leans back against him, one hand tangled over his while the other rests on their pile of luggage.

“My mom's here,” she says softly, spotting a familiar face in the crowd. Mitch doesn't make a sound, but the way his arms tighten says pretty much everything. “Marns.”

“Yeah?” His voice is muffled. Normally, she'd make a crack about being his windbreaker or something but this doesn't feel like the moment for it. Not since everything that has happened in the last few weeks. Somewhere along the way, they've become something...more. Something she can't exactly joke about and needs to acknowledge.

Dylan smiles a little bit, thinking about another airport and another turning point in the Marner-Strome saga. “Don't be a stranger, okay?”

He snorts. “We still strangers, Stromer?”

They're not. They're definitely not and they both know it. “I'm just telling you, Marns,” she says lightly. “You got me?”

She has to be imagining it, but there's a flutter on her shoulder, like he's kissed her there. “Yeah. I got you, Stromer.”

Her mom comes up, smiling. “Oh honey,” she begins sympathetically, then trails off. “Did you grow another pair of arms in Finland?”

“It's a growth named Mitch Marner.”

Mitch protests loudly, leaping away. His mom comes up shortly after and they part ways, but not without one last lingering hug.

“Should I ask?” her mom inquires as they walk away.

Maybe later. This isn't exactly something she can put into words right now. “Probably not.”

But she can’t seem to stop herself from looking over her shoulder at Mitch’s retreating back.

 

It takes three weeks to make a habit, or so the old adage goes, but the pressure, intensity and emotions from the World Juniors seems to speed up that timetable. Where Dylan had only sporadically spoken to Mitch over the course of the year between the U-17 and World Juniors - games against each other, notwithstanding - when they return from Finland, Dylan finds herself talking to him every day.

Sometimes about hockey, sometimes about home, about Toronto. They talk about the All Star Game, about their parents, their billet families. Mitch listens when she waxes poetic about Ryan’s team and she listens when he can’t stop talking about Toronto (she’d spent three hours on the phone with him discussing the Phaneuf trade. It was a big fucking deal for both of them).

It’s…it’s good.

But that doesn’t really explain the spring in her step as she strolls into Budweiser Gardens for their game against the Knights.

“Holy shit, Stromer, did Christmas come again?”

Dylan blinks over at Brinksie. “What?”

“You’re like… skipping. I didn’t think you knew how to skip?”

“Fuck you,” she says, and shoves him. “Of course I can skip. It’s in the handbook.”

“I bet it’s a date,” Dermott pipes up, dragging out the vowels. “Stromarner five-ever.”

“I will literally pay you to never say ‘five-ever’ again,” Dylan threatens. Not that it matters. Her cheeks are going pink. That’s easy enough to feel.

Dermott’s not exactly wrong. Dylan does have plans with Mitch. A dinner invitation he’d thrown out while they were on the phone together a couple of weeks back, tentative and a little like he was legitimately afraid she would say ‘no’. Looking back on it, Dylan’s not convinced she would have given him anything other than a ‘sure’.

She hasn’t been giving it much consideration. They’ve clinched a playoff spot, but that doesn’t mean she wants to let her game suffer.

Now that Dermott’s brought it up though, because he’s an actual asshole and Dylan’s going to plot her revenge slowly and carefully, it’s kind of stuck in her head. She’s going out for dinner with Mitch. After the game. She agreed to that. More importantly, she can feel the way she’s actually excited about it.  It bounces through her chest and makes her heart thump hard.

Nothing can calm her as she preps for the game, as she goes through her stretches in the visitor’s locker room, then the methodical process of putting on her pads, her socks, her skates, her jersey. Then it’s the ice, warm ups, sharing the ice with the Knights. With Mitch.

Who skates right over and nudges her arm.

“So. We still good for dinner after the game?”

Dylan swallows, has to do it again. When that does nothing to the lump in her throat, she has to nod.

Mitch’s mouth goes tight for a moment. “We don’t have to.”

“No,” she manages. “No we…I want to.”

She just… she’s having a hard time processing everything she’s feeling is all. She’s excited to see him and it’s never been like that for her. The only person she’s ever been this excited to see is basically Connor. Maybe her brothers, her family and yeah, she’d been excited to get back to her Otters, but like this? She has giddy butterflies in her stomach that she can’t remember having in ages. If ever.

She doesn’t play her best game. It’s weird and strange and everything feels… off. Dylan doesn’t know what to do with it all. She wants to blame Mitch, wants to yell and scream and throw things at him, but she also very, very much doesn’t. It’s a conflict that makes her snappish in the locker room until Brinksie - wonderful, glorious, all-knowing Brinksie, to whom she will never say any of those adjectives - shoves her hard into her stall.

“Buck up, cap. You’ve got a date.”

His arched eyebrow says he totally knows what’s going on here and has been around Dylan enough to know better. And that Dylan is going to owe him.

She kind of has the best team in the O.

Still, she’s all but vibrates her way through her shower, the anxious energy still humming under her skin. But the moment she steps into the hall to see Mitch and Dermott shoving at each other, it kind of just… dissipates.

“Don’t break him,” she says, and leans against the wall as the tussle peters out. Dermott grins at her shamelessly.

“That’s your job, Stromer. Knock out the top Knight.” His eyes light up and Dylan’s face is half way into her palm when he sings, “Knockin’ him out, with those Canadian thighs.”

“Dude.” Dylan’s head shoots up because that is not a tone she has ever heard from Mitch, a little offended and maybe a little proprietary. “Gross. Also, none of your business.”

Dermott raises his hand in surrender, but the look he gives Dylan as he slowly, and exaggeratedly, backs into the locker room tells her this is something she’s not living down any time soon. But the moment she looks back at Mitch, her breath catches. He doesn’t look triumphant or gloating, like they’re going to start the evening with him chirping her about the Otters’ ‘unfortunate’ loss. Instead, he’s wearing a little smile that makes her heart thump in her chest.

“Hi.”

There’s an answering smile that curls up in the corners of Dylan’s mouth, despite the fact that his soft voice is barely audible over the pounding blood in her ears. “Hi.”

He steps in closer and Dylan steps back out of reflex. That’s still her team in that room, with his not far along down the hall. A frown turns his mouth down and she feels her breath catch.

“Just… not here.”

He arches an eyebrow but she turns on her heel, slipping down the hall until she feels like she can breathe. Mitch doesn’t hesitate to push up into her space, get his hands on her hips.

“Hi,” he says again.

“Hi.”

Mitch pops up on his toes to press his mouth to hers. Dylan lets him, feeling the tension unwind in her shoulders as she does. She feels the sigh slide through her chest and out against his mouth as they kiss, as she responds and tangles her hand in his hair because he’s actually _here_ , she can feel him.

Jesus. God. Shit. She _likes_ him.

Really, really likes him.  

Mitch hums, squeezes her, and breaks away to press a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Ready?”

Her heart is pounding loud enough that she’s sure Mitch should be able to hear it. She has to swallow twice around the lump that’s in her throat before she can say, “Yes.”

 

Dylan doesn’t think twice about making the drive to Buffalo to see Connor play Jack in early March. It’s been forever since she’s seen him, for one thing, and it’s always different, watching Connor play on the ice rather than on television. And he doesn’t disappoint. Fucking overtime goal, snatched away off Jack’s own goal attempt.

He’s more than happy to loop an arm over her shoulders when they’re out with the rest of the team, to drag her back to his hotel with her and Dylan goes because fuck, _fuck_ she has missed his ugly face.

“Jesus, stop shuffling or I’m going to tell Leon he can totally come back and hang.”

“You would not. You miss me.” He still smells like freshly showered hockey player where she’s absolutely sprawled over his chest, but Dylan isn’t quite ready to let him shower for real just yet.

“I don’t miss your fucking emotional repression. What the hell is going on?” Except he clings a little tighter, so Dylan’s not too worried. It’s been too long since they’ve had this.

Dylan settles, goes still really. “IthinkIlikeMarns.”

“Stromer?”

She closes her eyes, clings to his waist and lets the whole story spill out, from their Christmas together to their New Year’s kiss, to the night before they left and their date in London just a few days before. “I definitely think I like Marns.”

Connor’s hand pauses against her spine for a moment before he says, “Oh.”

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” Dylan laments into his shoulder.

“It’s not that bad,” Connor murmurs into her head, “I mean, it’s just Marns.”

Dylan groans. “I hate Marns.”

“You’ve never hated him,” Connor retorts with a snort. “Your rivalry is actually made up.”

Dylan leaves that alone. She’s already had to deal with Jack tonight and this stupid-ass rivalry she can’t seem to put to bed. God, she hates that Jack’s hurting Connor like this, but after trying to explain everything to the woman herself, Dylan’s not ready to take on Connor’s moping just yet. “Connor, I like him, like him.”

“I got that part. I figured that out.”

“How?!” She really needs to stop forgetting that Connor is actually perceptive.

“You remember I called you when you lost that first game, and he was right there?”

Mitch had been warm, she remembers, and not much happier than she’d been. “Yeah.”

“You never even let Brinksie listen to our post-game talks, Stromer. Not once, and he’s team. But Marner? You let him stay with you the whole time. Through everything I said. Your vulnerable moment.”

Dylan sighs. “Fuck you and your emotional awareness.”

Connor snorts. “Emotional awareness my ass. I’m in love with the most stubborn woman on the planet.”

Dylan makes a noise like he’d punched her. “In love with her?”

“Well yeah,” Connor says on a sigh. “Pretty much.”

“She _hates_ you.”

“You’re not helping.” There’s a beat, because Dylan really does feel bad and isn’t quite sure what to say. He’s the one that goes on, “At least Marns likes you back.”

“Shit,” she breathes, still a little stunned because a crush is one thing, but love? “Holy shit, Davo. But Jack-” There are probably a million ways to finish that sentence but she doesn’t exactly want to use them.

“I know. She has sharp edges but...that’s what I _like_ about her, Dyls. Even when it bites me in the ass.” His grin is lopsided as he turns to her. “So. What’s your excuse?”

Honestly, she doesn’t even _know._ The slide from quasi-enemy to tolerable acquaintance to friend to whatever _this_ is has been so slow and gradual that she hasn’t even noticed, and she says so. “He’s like...moss,” she mutters, bewildered. “It doesn’t really matter until you’re covered in it and then there’s nothing you can really do about it.”

He snickers. “That’s your metaphor? Moss?”

“Shut up, Davo.” She’s actually pretty proud of it.

They both fall silent for a few moments. It’s been so long since they’ve had time like this and even surrounded by all of the Otters, she _misses_ him. Eventually, she says, “He doesn’t care that I’m prickly.”

She feels Connor’s nod against the top of her head. “It is a bit like hugging a porcupine.”

She pinches his side. He hisses. “You said it!”

“You’re not supposed to agree!”

“You’re not the one who had to listen to him when you were in Finland!” Connor argues, tightening his arms around her as she squirms. He is not supposed to feel so solid after gruelling months of NHL hockey, the asshole. “It was all ‘Stromer’s so smart’, ‘Stromer’s so good’, ‘Stromer knows so much about hockey’. I was going to puke.” He makes a considering face and Dylan stops squirming, curious. “No wonder Hallsy asked if I had the flu.”

She hits him, only frowns when he yelps. “Serves you right.”

“No, serves _you_ right. Who cares. He’s totally into you. Ride it out.”

“Ride it out? That’s your advice?”

Connor’s sigh actually sounds a bit pathetic. “Dyls. Jack couldn’t look me in the eye tonight. Marns is disgustingly into you. Don’t waste it.”

Dylan whimpers on his behalf. God, they’re pathetic. “She’ll come around.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“But I tried.”

She feels the lightest brush of his mouth against her hair. “Yeah, you did.”

 

Mitch is surprisingly quiet during their last game of the regular season. He doesn’t even try to say anything to her during warmups and Dylan’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the way things went last time. She’d had fun, despite her nerves. It’s more than a little suspicious, and when she sends him a look over her shoulder at opening face-off, he shrugs and glances down…

...down to his tape, where he’s written in black sharpie, ASK ME TO PROM.

Dylan fumbles that face-off, badly. Then she proceeds to ignore him because _what the hell_. She scores seconds into that first shift and it’s satisfying to know that whatever play he’s running here, it hasn’t thrown her off her game.

“Come on Stromer, are you really going to leave me hanging like that?” Mitch asks, trying to steal the puck from her.

“Hanging like what?” she snipes back, throwing the puck to Brinksie. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m so serious!” he protests, looking stricken. “Stromer!”

Brinksie nudges her when they come off their shift. “What’s going on?”

“Hell if I know,” she grumbles.

The next time their shifts coincide, Dylan’s intent on ignoring him once more, but Mitch, damn him, is fast. He flies up, wraps his arms around her - is that a _hug-check?_ “Are you kidding me, Marns?” Dylan hisses, trying to shake him off but he only clings tighter. She doesn’t even have the _puck_ . She can see her linemates - Brinksie clearly doesn’t know whether to pass the puck or not and this is so damn _embarrassing_.

“You won’t answer, Stromer, what else am I supposed to do?”

The whistle blows and ref calls interference. Dylan can only watch, bewildered, as Mitch skates towards the box, pouting the entire way. She’s pretty sure he pouts throughout the power play, actually.

They’re staying in London overnight and Dylan doesn’t see any reason not to keep her original plans, that is, hang out with Mitch. Even if he wanted her to ask him to prom. So she waits outside their locker room after the game, nodding at the guys she knows.

By the time Mitch comes out the door, she knows exactly what to say. “That isn’t exactly hockey, Marns,” she drawls.

He flushes a little bit and huh, that’s interesting after everything that’s happened between them. “Thought you were gonna bail on me, Stromer.”

“Why would I bail? You’re the one who’s acting fucking weird. ‘Ask me to prom?’”

There it is again, that weirdly tense expression. “Can this wait until we’re somewhere a little more private, please?”

She shrugs. “Lead the way.”

They’re silent the entire way to his billet house. Mitch doesn’t even speak when they’re finally shut up in his room and Dylan just doesn’t do awkward, okay. She throws her bag on the floor and sprawls on his bed. “So, what’s up?”

“What’s up?” he echoes in disbelief, standing over her. “You didn’t even answer my question!”

“There wasn’t a question! You told _me_ to ask _you_ to prom!”

He throws his hands in the air, so very melodramatic. “And you clearly don’t want to, so we’re done then. Why are you even here?”

Christ, this is ridiculous. Dylan reaches out and drags him down to the bed with her, firmly anchoring herself on top of him when he tries to buck her off and get away. If she has to cuddle him into submission, she will. “You know our games are always fucking crazy,” she reminds him. “It’s not exactly atmospheric, eh?”

He snorts. “Since when do you care about atmosphere, Stromer?”

He has a point. Jack is the girlier one of the two of them, something Dylan had not expected at all prior to meeting her. But still… “It’s _prom_ ,” she points out, bearing down a little harder on his shoulders. “It deserves some effort, don’t you think? Christ, Marns, it’s not like I’m going to say no, just…”

Mitch finally stops struggling, gaping up at her like a fish. He looks both dumb and adorable and Dylan just resigns herself to her lot in life. This is the _other_ idiot she’s decided to place her love with, and in a way that’s only mildly terrifying. “You...you’re saying yes?”

“Duh. I mean, I probably have to wear some poofy monstrosity, which is not cool, but-”

He rears up beneath her, catching her lips with his before he loses all momentum and flops back onto the bed. She follows him, a little out of habit, but also because she _missed_ him. He chuckles into her mouth but lets her have the control. Dylan doesn’t quite know what to do with his face when she pulls away.

“Hey Stromer.” She doesn’t know what to do with his voice either. “Wanna go to prom with me?”

She rolls her eyes so hard she thinks maybe she hurts something. “Yeah, asshole. Fuck knows why,” but her smile is so, so wide on her face, “but yeah, I’ll go to prom with you.”

His shrug is supposed to be nonchalant, she knows that, but it is entirely betrayed by the grin on his face. “Cool.”

She punches him.

 

There are only three weeks left until prom, and Dylan is kind of panicking. Her mom has arranged an entire spa morning with massages, manicures (and oh, is Dylan going to fuck that up major time), hair, and makeup before taking her to London. She didn’t really have the heart to protest because her mom was so excited. She’s missed prom in Erie both times because of hockey and while she doesn’t really care, she knows her mom does.

Anyway, there is still the problem of the dress, and there’s really only one person she can think of who can help her. Problem is, they haven’t exactly been talking lately.

Dylan gets Jack’s complete irritation over the McEichel rivalry - hell, she even understands it - but she still can’t figure out how to try and get through to her and explain just how stupid it is for her to hang on to it. Maybe it’s not her job. But hell, she feels somewhat responsible, especially because she’s the one Connor whines to when he’s twisting himself into knots over her (which has been often, since the Buffalo game).

Still. Dylan doesn’t care if Jack has a weird thing towards her because of her friendship with Connor. She’d kind of desperate and damn it, they _will_ be friends, even if Dylan has to drag her, kicking and screaming, into it.

 _help,_ she texts Jack. _i need a prom dress thats not a poofy monstrosity and i dont trust anyone here._

 _didnt think that was ur thing, stromer_ , Jack texts back, surprisingly prompt.

_it’s not._

The three dots pop up immediately and Dylan fights down how relieved she feels.

_shit. u really werent kidding when u said u 2 were a thing. he actually asked u to prom?_

_no, he wrote “ask me to prom” on his tape during our last game._

_...now that sounds like him. u sure he’s not going to show up in a powder blue tux?_

Dylan groans because he absolutely would, the little shit. He’d probably even try to regrow the mullet if he had the time. _look, ru going to help me or not?_

_fucking right I am. take u prom dress shopping? this is gonna be hilarious._

_fuck off._

Somehow, between Jack’s schedule and Dylan’s they find a day that works. Sure, it involves Dylan waking up stupidly early to drive an hour and a half to Walden Galleria, but she’ll take what she can get.

Jack’s waiting for her at the Macy’s, two cups of Timmies’ in hand. “Oh thank god,” Dylan says, reaching for one of them. “Coffee.”

“That isn’t coffee, but okay,” Jack says with amusement. “Let’s get started, yeah?”

“First, some guidelines,” Dylan interrupts, looking up from her cup. “I have a budget and yes, I know _you_ can afford it but it’s just prom, Eichs.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “But you still want to look nice.”

“Hence me asking you for help.”

She shrugs. “Okay. But you try on everything I pick out for you. No excuses.” Suddenly, she grins and Dylan does not like the look in her eyes. “And that includes the obligatory gotta-try-it-on-because-it’s-so-heinous prom dress.”

Yep, totally a trap. But Dylan has Timmies’, so she feels like she can face anything right now. “Fine. But only if you try one on with me.”

Jack starts pulling her towards the women’s section. “Worth it. You’re going to prom with _Mitchell Marner_. Have you even seen his face?”

They don’t find anything at Macy’s, even though Dylan tries on about twenty dresses. If it were her, she probably would have picked the least offensive (and cheapest) and already left. Still, she has to admit that Jack definitely has style. Everything she’s picked is understated, yet sophisticated. There’s nothing overly ridiculous that has Dylan protesting right away.

They’re on their way out when Dylan spots IT. She makes a beeline for the hangars, cackling the whole way. “Oh man, Eichs, you have to try this one.”

The dress is bright pink with a poofy, tiered ruffled skirt. The bodice is heavily crusted in pink and white sequins and there are rhinestones on the spaghetti straps. She grabs it off the rack and spins towards Jack, holding out the skirt. “What do you think?”

The other girl makes a face, looking genuinely offended. “That’s so terrible.” Her eyes skim the nearby racks. “But since we made a deal…”

Dylan didn’t even know they made prom dresses like this anymore. It’s something out of the eighties, off-the-shoulder with huge puffy straps and a skirt that could contain half a hockey team. Even worse, it’s Knights’ green. “You’re the worst,” she mutters as she climbs into the gown.

“You’re the one who’s putting me in a dress that makes me look even redder than I already am,” Jack snarks from the other dressing room. “Pretty sure this dress isn’t going to zip up, my shoulders are too big.”

“Whatever,” Dylan huffs, stepping out and almost immediately tripping over the massive skirt. “Son of a bitch!”

Jack’s door swings open and the two of them stare at one another for one long moment before cracking up. “Jesus Stromer, all you need is teased hair and a giant bow and you’re all set to star in the next John Hughes’ movie.”

“What, you mean hair like yours? Eichs, you’re practically the same color as your dress.”

“It’s also fucking itchy,” she grumbles. “Goddamn sequins.”

Dylan pulls out her phone. “Come on, this has got to go on Instagram.”

She takes a mirror pic, with both of them making ridiculous duck faces. _#readyforprom #80swatchout #fashionistasamiright?_

Before long, the notifications start going off like crazy.

Tyler comments: _No. NO. I am disowning both of you._

Mitch chimes in not long after her. _g8 colour. pink tux? #hotstuff_

Connor sends a heart-eyes emoji.

Jack looks over Dylan’s shoulder to read the notifications and snorts. “Oh my god.” She doesn’t even have the courtesy of looking apologetic, just gleeful. “This is the man you’ve chosen, Stromer. I hope you’re proud.” There’s no indication whether or not she’s seen Connor’s comment, but there’s no way she’s missed it. “Come on, we have a real dress to find.” And then it’s off to the next department store.

For some of the dresses, Jack snaps pictures and sends them off. “Who are those going to?” Dylan asks, suspicious.

“Beauts’ group chat,” she responds, typing away. “Just for some other opinions. They were really excited when I told them about it. I had to talk some of them out of coming along because I thought it might be a little overwhelming.”

“Oh.” She blinks. She feels like she should have known that Jack would somehow end up buddies with the Beauts’ players, but didn’t quite consider this. “What have they said so far?”

“That some of the dresses were nice, but none of them are the one.”

She groans as Jack pulls another dress off the rack, considers it, then puts it back. “It’s a prom dress, Eichs, not a wedding dress.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack drawls, turning towards another rack of dresses. “And that’s why you came to me for help, Stromer, otherwise you would’ve picked that green dress.”

“I would not!” Dylan squawks indignantly. “I might not have a lot of taste, but I have that much!”

“Right.” Jack shoves a stack of dresses into her arms. “I have a good feeling about some of these. Chop chop.”

“Yes master,” Dylan snarks. She randomly picks a dress out of the stack and pulls it on, then stares at herself in the mirror. “Huh. I think I really like this one.”

“Out,” Jack demands. Her face goes thoughtful when Dylan steps out, and she drags her over to the big mirrors. “Hold on, let’s see.” She carefully does the buttons at the back, then snaps another picture. “I like this one, too.”

It’s a halter neck, navy blue at the top with a thin silvery belt at the waist. The skirt is periwinkle and falls in gentle pleats towards the ground, making her look even slimmer and taller. It’s simple. It’s pretty. Dylan’s pretty sure it’s the one. She does an experimental twirl in front of the mirror, loving the way the skirt gently flares out around her. She suddenly has the urge to find a staircase and just sweep down it.

Jack’s phone blips a few times and she grins, showing Dylan various responses. Bozek sends one long row of exclamation points, while Pfalzer just puts a bunch of hearts. “Yep, the girls really like it too. Duggy says to go for it.”

“Well, if Captain America says so.” But she’s smiling as she goes for another little twirl. She’s gotta admit, she’s kind of looking forward to seeing Mitch’s jaw hit the ground.

Jack is smiling too and Dylan would be weirded out by how relaxed she is, but when she thinks about it, pretty much every context they’ve met has had an aspect of competition hanging over it. Sure, they’re top prospects so they thrive on competition, but this is completely different.

Really different, actually. It’s nice. “Hey,” she begins. “Thanks for the assist, Eichs.”

She glances up from her phone. “Not a problem, Stromer. Couldn’t let Marns make the ‘beautiful’ and you make the ‘couple,’ huh? Although that would be one hell of a stretch for him.” Dylan doesn’t even protest because sure, he’s got a funny face. He’s her funny face, though. “Besides,” Jack continues, looking at the dress with approval. “I like shopping.”

“That makes one of us,” Dylan grumbles.

Jack snickers. “Come on. Let’s get the dress, then lunch. My treat.”

 

Dylan has actual butterflies in her stomach the entire drive to London. The urge to pull the van door open and just _flee_ grows stronger and stronger with each mile, and she twists her fingers together in her lap while her mom chats away happily in the front.

“-the Marners will be able to make it after all, so we’ll have dinner with them before we drive back. Are you sure you don’t want us to-?”

“I’m sure Dylan would appreciate some time alone with Mitch, dear,” her father laughs. “Though that’s certainly something I never would have expected even two years ago.”

Her phone buzzes. _im looking good better not embarrass me._

_ur already embarrassing._

Her phone rings before he can even reply, the screen plastered with Ryan sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. Dylan can feel the smile spreading across her face even as she accepts the call. “Hey, stinker.”

She can already hear the answering smile in his voice. “Dyls. You look beautiful.”

“You haven’t even seen the whole thing yet!” she protests, touching at her hair and immediately yanking her hand back down because the last thing she needs to do is mess that up.

“Don’t need to,” he replies. “I’m sure I’ll see the full photos soon enough. I just wanted to say have fun, and don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know that Mitch is the one with all the stupid,” she protests.

“Even so.” He winks at her. “Remember what we talked about, Matt!”

Matt doesn’t even glance up from his phone. “Got it!” he yells back, flashing a thumbs up.

Her eyes narrow. “What have you talked about? Don’t tell me you guys are pulling some brother schtick-”

Ryan twirls an invisible mustache, the idiot. “Gotta go! JT says to have fun, too!”

“We’ll send you pictures, dear!” their mom yells as Ryan hangs up. Dylan lets out a wordless scream and turns on Matt.

“Seriously, what was he talking about?”

Matt shakes his head. “It’s a guy thing.”

“Oh bulls- _shaka laka_ it’s a guy thing!” she says, reaching over to try and get him in a headlock. He scrambles away, pressing himself against the door and trying to push her away, his arms windmilling. “Tell me, you little cretin!”

“Dylan Winona Strome!” their mother scolds, turning around from the front seat. “Don’t you dare mess up all the hard work those ladies put into you! That goes for you too, Matthew.”

They both open their mouths to protest.

“Everybody decent?” their dad remarks mildly. “Because we’re here.”

And just like that, her butterflies are back. These, however, are nothing like the ones that sent her to Connor in a panic. This is...anticipation. Excitement. Because for all of Jack’s teasing, Mitch _is_ the one she’s chosen and she doesn’t regret that. Not one tiny bit.

Mitch must have been watching from the window because he’s beside the van before it has even pulled to a stop.

“Wait!” her mom yelps and hops out. “I need to get a picture!”

She can hear Mitch say hi, and the brief sound of their conversation as both Matt and her dad get out to greet Mitch’s parents and billet family. Dylan, however, remains glued to her seat, squinting to try and get a glimpse of him through the tinted windows.

The door slides open. Mitch’s little half-grin slides off his face at the sight of her. His eyes widen and his jaw drops and well, that’s pretty much what she was going for.

“Wow, nothing to say?” she asks archly, holding out her hand because there is no graceful way to get out of the van in this dress, not without assistance. “Are pigs flying?”

Mitch just shakes his head, his eyes darting all over her face. “Shut up, Dylan,” he murmurs.

Then he steps forward and kisses her, right there in front of both their families.

And Dylan… Dylan lets him.

Dylan kisses him back, giddy and happy and thinking of Leafs games and Coyote games, cuddling and Facetiming his ugly face just because she misses him.

Mitch is the one who pulls back and who offers her an arm. “Miss Strome, may I escort you to dinner?”

 _I’m in love with a dork,_ Dylan thinks, without a hint of panic and a grin stretched wide over her mouth. “You may.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dylan's reference to dealing with Jack after the Oilers v Sabres can be found [here.](http://wonthetrade.tumblr.com/post/140583067419/congrats-on-the-milestone-can-you-tell-us-abt)
> 
> For more Girl Brigade, come to tumblr and chat!: [wonthetrade.](wonthetrade.tumblr.com)


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